Reign of Darkness
by Joachim Myrdal
Summary: With Chapter 18, the remnants of the Watchers make their counterattack against the Black Rose, and Vincent and Lyra have successfully escaped. The story ends, but there'll be more, so don't count it out yet. Please review!
1. The Vision

"Hello, Lyra. I've been waiting for you."

"Who the hell are you?"

"Oh, that doesn't matter. Sit by me, will you?"

She felt as if she had no other choice; she sat down beside him. He was older than her, certainly – in his early twenties – with short brown hair and eyes just a shade darker, and average dimensions. A common face, and body, all in all, but his clothing – no inch of cloth on his body was any other color than black or gray. Dark, for the warmth that he exuded, and his daemon – a snowy owl with not even a fleck of gray among the masses of white plumage – didn't help the perception at all.

"Where is this?"

"The hills of Scotland," he replied. "Lovely."

She wasn't a fan of the mountains, but she could see exactly what he meant. The shades of green on the rolling hills, the tall blades of grass, the thick, powerful trees that had probably stood there for four human lifetimes . . . the beauty was there, yes.

"It is lovely."

"I was referring to more than the view."

"What do you–" she started, realized what he meant, and said, "I'm flattered."

"Not often I hand out compliments like that."

"Would you mind telling me your name, sir?"

"Certainly. Which one should you like?"

"Which–how many names do you have?"

"Given ones, seven," he said, smiling. "My mother gave Vincent and James, but since then I've been forced to add Arthur, Duncan, Edward, Sean and Tobias to those."

"If you don't mind," she replied, "I'll stay with Vincent, thank you."

"Can't say I blame you–"

"You could always do as I do," the owl suddenly spoke up, "and call him Idiot."

"Always sweet as honey, Leochleánne."

It took Lyra a moment to realize that that name belonged to the daemon. She had to laugh, nevertheless – since when did settled daemons snap at their humans so quickly?

"A pretty name."

"Don't tell her. I wouldn't want her to get a bigger head than she has now."

"You should be talking."

"By the way, Lyra," Vincent said, turning back to her, "I doubt you've realized it yet, but this is a dream . . . though we will see each other soon, I believe."

"Then – how – you're–"

"I'm as alive and warm-blooded as you are."

"But–"

"It would take too much time to explain in one night," he said, still smiling. "Later, Lyra, once we can see each other on the physical plane, I shall tell you."

"What do you mean? How–are you coming to the school?"

"No, no," he responded, "though I would love to see Oxford. No, you will have to come to me . . . and you may not know it yet, but you will, soon enough. In fact, if I am still attuned to the physical world, you will have to wake up in about an hour."

"But I've only been here–"

"A few minutes, I know. I did not intend to see you here for much longer. Sleep in a dream world such as this will not be as refreshing as a dreamless one, Lyra. I promise you, I will tell you everything you want to know – once we've met each other."

"When will I see you?"

"By tomorrow afternoon we'll have become friends, in any case."

"How do you _know_–"

She didn't even finish the sentence. Instead, darkness gripped her, and she felt herself dragged down into an inescapable void . . . yet, as she fell upon its surface – or its essence, perhaps? – she felt it sweet, warm, and desirable, and closed her eyes again.

Lyra felt sweat on her brow, back, and arms. She kicked off the drenched sheets and sat in the bed, looking around the dark room. That was the _last_ time she ate so closely to her curfew; or perhaps the gentle breeze blowing into the room had something to do with it. She remembered the one time she had been in Scotland, when Dame Hannah had personally taken her to see a scholar who lived in Edinburgh. The breeze reminded her of the forests there – which had interested her more anyway – but she had dreamed of _hills_.

"Lyra," Pan said groggily beside her, "go back to sleep."

"D'you feel like doing that, Pan, on these sheets?"

"I've seen worse from you before," he replied. "Just do it."

She lay back down and tried, but she knew damn well that there was no way she would fall asleep again; she would have to wait that hour out – if Vincent was right about the hour. Pantalaimon curled up beside her in his red-gold pine marten's fur, but for all the show, she easily sensed he wasn't about to fall asleep either.

"Strangest dream I've ever had, Pan."

"I've never seen a snowy owl like that one, anyway."

"Or a man that strange! How do you think he–"

"Lyra, it was only a dream, he wasn't–"

The door opened, and Lyra immediately crushed herself against the sheets.

But it wasn't Dame Hannah who came in, or Mrs. Cole, the Disciplinarian – for a second Lyra had been worried that she had screamed in her sleep. It was Mrs. Merrick, the housemaid, and she seemed to be muttering to herself. Lyra tried to catch a bit of it.

"Oh, what'll I say to her, what'll I do, what'll I act like, it'll–"

Lyra didn't try to hear any more; it seemed to her that Mrs. Merrick was thinking about having been late to something else again, which was actually quite common. She was incredibly persistent, good-natured, amicable and caring, yes, and that was why all the girls preferred her out of all the maids, but she tended to forget nearly everything.

Mrs. Merrick glanced at Lyra, but obviously didn't notice that she was awake. She began piling clothes on a chair beside the bed, a dress, heels, a pair of gloves, a change of undergarments – and then began piling, neatly and separately, what had to be changes of clothing. But she hadn't been told about a trip; had Dame Hannah thought up something she might like to see? Maybe they'd be going off to the hills of Scotland?

"Lyra, child," Mrs. Merrick finally said, "wake up. Get up, quick."

"What the–what's going on, Mrs. Merrick?"

"Someone passed away."

Someone had _died_? Lyra felt herself straining to think; perhaps Dame Hannah had wanted her to go to the Scottish scholar's funeral. That made sense, if she truly was to see Vincent soon – she would be seeing him in the hills, no?

"Who is it?"

"Oh, child – Farder Coram. Old age."

"What?"

She had had a dream beyond all possibility, but this shattered what little remained of it. She was going on eighteen, and she had not seen Serafina, or Iorek, or Ma Costa in over four years – and now one of them, she would never see again. Somehow, she fought back the urge to cry: after all, he'd be free now, wouldn't he? He'd tell the spirits of that world stories, and in return, he'd finally be free of the world, free . . .

"Child, get _up_, the Costa narrowboat is waiting."

"All right," she mumbled. "Do I have to wash first?"

"Never mind that. Just dress and go."

She changed quickly and tried her best to walk with the heels – though her friends here had done their best to show her how to do it, she was none too skillful at it, and she felt a hope blooming in her chest that Mrs. Merrick had decided to pack other shoes in the suitcase as well. If she didn't have long before she changed, in any case . . .

"All right, Lyra, you might not be seeing us for a while."

"Why?"

"Well, there's the funeral and all, isn't there? A proper gyptian funeral, I imagine. Dame Hannah says you're to be allowed to travel for whatever length of time you want, child, so this is goodbye, if only for a year or so, child."

"Oh, don't say that. I'll come back if I can."

Mrs. Merrick gave her a hug and sent her on her way; Lyra managed to walk well enough that she faced no stares, as a few other girls were in the corridors despite the early hour. Pantalaimon stayed curled up on her shoulder; she went down the staircase, left the Dormitory Building, and found herself right in front of Tony Costa.

"Wish we could have seen you in happier circumstances, Lyra," he immediately said, "but Ma'll be glad to have you, and there's someone she'd like you to meet."

"Who?"

"She wouldn't let me say, though I felt it right."

She followed Tony to a pair of horses – probably their own; she'd heard rumors of gyptian families buying horses in bulk to help with transportation – and spoke nothing as they rode through Oxford to the docks. She wondered if perhaps Vincent was there . . .


	2. The Stranger

When they reached the docks, Lyra quickly noticed their poor condition. Most of them were close to falling through, they were, and a few – like the one the narrowboat was tied up at – were putting up a fight, though a vain one. She almost cried anew.

"Yes, I know, Lyra. We've been a trying to get them repaired, but no chance, not with the Magisterium a cracking down on those things."

She wasn't listening, in any case. She had just sighted a figure on the dock, and no figure had ever come so close to ripping her heart directly out of her chest. She was sure – couldn't tell how, couldn't know how – that that figure was the young man from her dream. Pantalaimon sensed it too, and the pine marten's fur slightly stood up.

"So there he is, and we a trying to wake him up all morning."

She still wasn't listening, even as Tony led his horse up the pier; somehow, it did not give way under the horse's weight. Lyra thought it best to wait, however, and as she stood still on her horse, the figure came up to her. Indeed, it was the man.

"The pier is safe. Tony led both of the horses through here."

"I'll wait, if it's all the same to you."

"Well, perhaps it is." He smiled. "Was I right about the time?"

"I have no idea–"

Though she had taken it for granted that he was the one from her dream, she had not expected him to _confirm _it so easily. The idea had been far too outlandish, but he had just assured her – with the utmost calm and grace – that yes, he had invaded her sleep.

"How did you get into my dreams?"

"A bagatelle, Lyra, once one knows how."

"Bagatelle?"

"A mere thing, a triviality. If you'll be staying on the narrowboat for some time, I may be able to teach you some of this."

"Teach me?"

"Well, if you wish to learn."

Her mind immediately jumped to Will. What if this strange power of his could cross worlds? Could she invade the sleep of anybody else? Aside from Will, there were others she would have liked to talk to . . . Dr. Malone, perhaps, or she could talk to Iorek and Serafina, even if they were so far away . . . distances would be no boundary to her.

"Of course I want to learn," she said. "When can we start?"

"In a few days, once you're settled into sea life again."

"But–"

"I know you want to start learning immediately," he continued, "but believe me, I cannot begin teaching you the practice without the theory. That I can start teaching now."

"Now? Right now?"

"As soon as you've got your room."

He helped her with the horse – she was a rather clumsy rider – and led it into the narrowboat, which was nowhere near as cramped as she would have thought. A couple of gyptian men took the horses, warmly greeted Lyra, and led them – the horses, that is – to the bottom chambers, while Ma Costa appeared from another corridor.

"Oh, Lyra, child!"

In the next moment, Ma Costa had thrown her arms around Lyra – and though she had grown quite a bit, she still felt somewhat constricted in this grip. The one glimpse she managed backwards told her that Vincent was smiling as he took her suitcase down.

It took her a few minutes to free herself and learn directions to her cabin.

When she got there, she noticed Vincent waiting, with one ankle resting on the opposite knee, her suitcase lying on the bed beside him. He had a strange air, like Lord Asriel and the Master of Jordan had, but his air was not of that power, not of power in the sense of strength. It was more a sort of _awareness_, as if he knew all that went about him.

"D'you need my help unpacking?"

"Well, if you'll teach me while we do that–"

"Aye, then, let's get to it." He opened her suitcase and began opening drawers in the cabin. "Lyra, I know you've lost your ability to read the alethiometer."

"How d'you know that?"

"That doesn't matter," he said as he packed one of her coats into a drawer. "Can you remember, at all, the trancelike state you used to read it?"

"Of course. That's one thing you don't forget."

"Well, we're going to have to make use of the same thing. I'm going to be helping you at first, because it will not be easy to retain that trance, after you've suppressed it."

"You mean lost it."

"_Suppressed_ it." He smiled yet again. "We never lose abilities that we've gained so naturally, Lyra, no matter what the Master of Jordan College told you. They are simply there, at the back of your mind, and I intend to revive that bit within you. A philosopher I studied once called it the unconscious. His name was Sigmund Freud."

"Freud? But he–"

"Was a heretic, I know. Not where I came from."

"You come from the New Holland territories?"

"Please, Lyra. Even in New Holland here they'd consider Freud a heretic. I come from a world you will never know, though I would like to show it to you one day."

"Really?"

"Aye," he said. "Interesting world, really. John Calvin wasn't Pope, for one."

"But that's–Are you from Will's world?"

"Hell, no!" Though he had used a very exclamatory tone, he was smiling. "Mine is similar, I'll admit, but I'm glad to say that we escaped quite a few differences there."

"How long have you been in this one?"

"Six or seven years at the most. A few men at the Theological Institute in Cardiff nearly fainted when they heard that. After all, you're not supposed to live more than ten years in another world, and there was me in perfect health talking about having been here for seven. Must have been strange for them."

"Strange for anyone."

He nodded; she supposed he didn't know the actual consequences of placing your daemon in another world for more than that length of time – or she did until he spoke.

"I come from a world of travelers, Lyra, and it seems that they've built up some sort of resistance to it. In the hills of my Scotland, why, every village would have a wise man capable of traveling through worlds with a mere thought, and most learned men do it without care for what happens. My father . . . well, that should be another story."

"Who was your father?"

"Ignatius Percival Cole, they've always called him, or 'Percy' if they thought him too much of a dreamer. He – well, he traveled into another world, as would any man to be called a scholar, and disappeared . . . for about thirty years, mind you, and returned as alive as either of us. He was in the North, last I heard, possibly in New Sweden."

"Ignatius Cole . . . wasn't that a Master of Jordan College?"

"1745 to 1748, yes, sharp girl you are. I suppose you've seen the catacombs. Aye, that was one of my father's ancestors. Father always saw him as exemplary."

"So you're Vincent James Cole?"

"Indeed," he said as he packed away the last of her clothing, her wolf-skin coat. "Vincent to you, that is. Now that you've got the history down, may we begin with the philosophical theory, and try out a few exercises?"

"Yes!"

"Well, then, Lyra, I will now demonstrate a simple feat that this awareness allows me to perform. I will not need a sign from you, though you will most likely give one."

Why would she need a sign from . . . she seized up.

She had felt a hand brush her, but not her flesh . . . it had touched deeper than that, it had touched her soul and her heart and her mind. Everything but her body had been felt in that one moment, and she could feel in it the warmth that Vincent projected.

"There."

"And that's only a little thing? You can do more than this?"

"Far more, Lyra, but for that you must know the basics. I warn you, in what I shall teach you, practice and theory tend to meld far closer than in any other doctrine. All I can promise you is that this will take work, and time, to develop."

"I don't mind working," she said, "or waiting."

"Then you've already achieved some wisdom, Lyra."

She was unsure what to say to that. It was the first time in years that someone called her wise, and she did not feel she was wise at all – quite the opposite.

"I'm cooking breakfast for the family tomorrow," he said, "so I won't be able to see you for lessons until the afternoon. Would it be all right if we met at four? I want to get a few things ready to help with the process of transferring your mind to a trance."

"I guess."

"Well, tomorrow I'll teach you the basics. Trances, fugues – that kind of thing."

"Fugues?"

"Trust me, you don't want to know . . . yet, at any rate."

It seemed to her, as he walked away, that she did want to know, and that she felt as interested in fugues and trances and whatever as much as she had liked Dust once.

**Thanks to:**

_bookworm-2111_ – Whether this one lives or dies is up to my prior engagements. I have to admit that I only write when I get a chance to work on these projects. But I will do my best.

_Chiefhow_ – Well, looks like you get your wish at least. I hope all updates can come quickly in the future.

_Everyone who reviewed the first version_ – It was stupid not to thank you at the beginning, but it completely slipped my mind. I only remember a handful of names: Some Beauty Never Fades and sophonax are the two I'm sure reviewed. But whoever you were, thanks. Your reviews resulted in these improvements.


	3. Breakfast

"So, want help?"

"I can cook, Lyra, but after I'm done here you can help me set the table."

"Fine. Can you teach me anything else here?"

"That depends on you. Are you willing to learn?"

"Oh, yes."

"I can only teach you what – others – have said before me," he said and smiled. "Without the use of both my hands, I can teach you next to nothing of practice."

"I'd be all right with that."

"Good." He deftly switched two pans at once. "The unconscious is a well-known phenomenon. It existed well before Freud named it that, if in many other names . . . one of the most popular is, of course, the soul, or the spirit, or the 'breath of life.' You know that the Greek word for 'soul' or for 'spirit' was _pneuma_?"

"No."

"_Pneuma_ means 'breath.' A branch of technology called _pneumatics_ focuses on using pressure to move objects around . . . I think it was named that, anyway, because the hiss of air that escapes from pneumatic machinery sounds like the thing is breathing."

"Right."

"But I digress. In any case, the Greeks, the Chinese, and the Sumerians were all very much aware of this, and they used to revere those that saw things or heard voices. Has Dame Hannah ever told you about Angelus Silesius?"

"No."

"He was a mystic," he replied, "the only one they'll allow colleges to teach here, given that he's also one of the few male Christian mystics. If you still had popes, Pius XII might have been another mystic. They have a connection with God that goes higher than most of us can expect . . . but in reality, a mystic doesn't have to connect with God alone. That's the beauty of mysticism. You can connect with whatever you feel you identify."

"And you . . ."

"I identify with myself," he said. "Sounds awkward, I know, and stupid if you think about it, but there's no larger beauty than to rediscover who you are. I am a recent initiate to this discipline, Lyra, and I already know the depths of my soul better than most do in their lifetimes. It is a strange feeling . . . but a good one, nonetheless."

"And this is what you learn in trances?"

"No. Quite the other way around – only by achieving self-knowledge can you reach a trance state. I'm going to teach you how to reach a trance, but that's exactly why I want to help you through it the first few times . . . I can provide a base for you."

"And a fugue?"

"A fugue state is what happens if you try to do things too fast. If you enter a state such as a trance when you're not prepared, or before achieving full self-knowledge, you will most likely enter it. Should you go off course – go off what I teach you, as I know you will be wont to do – you will most likely fall into one. That is why I will be there, to make sure that I provide enough of a base that I can give what you haven't yet."

"A base . . . wouldn't I still need self-knowledge?"

"Think of it as me inviting you into the house. If it seems an odd analogy, it is. I'd be inviting you into your own house, as if I had been watching it for you."

"So you're my host?"

"Well, closely enough, but you'd be the owner still."

She considered that. It was a smart metaphor – another of the words that college had taught her – and he had clarified it very simply for her. The man was a natural for teaching; she wondered if perhaps he would have liked to come to Jordan, or to Dame Hannah's college – male professors were common there if a woman could not be found at the moment, and it would have been excellent to see him teaching an entire class about philosophy and experimental theology.

"Do you understand that?"

"Yes."

"Then let us move on. You know what mystics are, about trances and fugues, and that is all that is needed for now, but since we are moving so fast, I might take the chance and tell you more. If you do not understand, do not worry, for you will not need to know this to exercise the discipline. I simply find it – useful – to know the history of it."

"Right."

"In my world, we know only of history up to thirty thousand years before the birth of Jesus Christ, and up until the Indus Valley civilizations, close to nothing. But we know that the first humans believed in _animism_ – that is, to them, everything had a spirit. It will sound primitive to both of us, but animists were quite in the right, as it turns out. All of the world's many creatures indeed have spirits, as you will soon see.

From there on, there have always been those who can see beyond our realm. Call them as you will – seers such as Farder Coram, shamans, medicine men, whatever – they are all mystics, in a sense, because they connect to something much deeper than we do, and that's why the word is _mystic_, because they connect to deeper levels – that's why the word has the same root as _mystery_, do you understand, Lyra?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now be a good girl and tell the family that breakfast is ready," he said as he placed the – flapjacks, were those? They had spots on them . . . – on plates. She could only feel the sting at being told to be a "good girl." She'd left that one behind long ago!

"Why don't I give you a kiss while I'm at it?"

"I would not mind that," he replied, calmly, no malice in his voice, "but as I know better than you do to whom your heart belongs, at least at the moment, it is unlikely that I would demand anything of the kind. So I ask you, _please_ tell Ma Costa that it's ready."

"Very well."

It didn't occur to her until she had gone above decks that she understood the tone of his voice; true, it had been calm, much like him, but she suddenly realized that she had hurt him deeply, and it had taken him some effort to speak without being angry at her. She didn't know why, and probably never would without him telling her; but the sad look in his eyes when he'd said "who your heart belongs to" gave her a bit of an idea.

"What d'you reckon? Lord Asriel's daughter?"

"If what we've heard about him is right, then most likely."

Vincent smiled. It was unusual for him, but pleasantly unusual; in his world, a girl was still a vapid image of her father, brother, husband, or whoever controlled her affairs at that point in her life. To meet someone like Lyra, who broke the mold, was interesting.

"You shouldn't have said that."

"What, the kissing business? Come off it, Leochleánne, she doesn't know that."

"Women have their intuition," the owl replied, "something that I've been trying to teach you for years, and you still don't listen to me. She'll have it figured out by the next sundown, and if she doesn't, Ma Costa will be quick to tell her."

"We asked Ma Costa to keep quiet on that."

"But we're nothing like Lord Faa, or Farder Coram. She owes us no allegiance, and rightly doesn't, so if she tells Lyra we can't be angry at her."

"I haven't let that get me in a while."

"Until three minutes ago, you mean."

"I don't know if that's true," he said slowly. "Leochleánne, it felt as if . . . as if I should tell her. And no," he cut across her, his voice quickening, "it wasn't some sort of emotional release, as you'd call it. I don't know how, but I knew she needed to know."

"As you do, Vincent. You're the mystic between us two."

"Aye, that I am, Leochleánne, and you know what? I feel as if she needs to know more. I know that we shouldn't teach her beyond the basics, but – if she is so integral to the events to come – shouldn't we help her a bit?"

"She has to make her mistakes."

"She did last time, and it's caused her no end of pain and suffering. I defy you to want to deny her a bit of happiness and security. Lyra's made a journey of tears already; I have no wish to make this one the same, or worse–"

"Neither do I, but we must."

"Why? We know well that fate does not bind us."

"Fate may not, Vincent, but do you forget what that girl holds in the balance? It is your _world_ she has in her hands, man, not to mention all the others! A misstep could cost literally trillions upon trillions of lives in billions of different worlds!"

"And it may, Leochleánne, but I cannot see those worlds."

"I can," she said stubbornly, "and I do not wish to see them hurt."

"Then help me help her! Leochleánne, we were taught at Edinburgh that we may know through ourselves, but understanding only comes with one another. She may have a talent for the alethiometer and for anything to do with the unconscious, but only with our help can she truly achieve her full potential. And only with her help can her world do it."

"I don't know–"

"Tell them when the table's set."

He hadn't even noticed that Lyra was there, but at the moment, yes, he was a bit angry, and he allowed Leochleánne to ruffle her feathers haughtily. For once.

"I expected that. Thank you, in any case."

As Lyra helped him with the table, he began to think beyond the present time and location. Possibilities seemed to open and close to him as doors might, and though he did his best to predict everything, he said nothing, and simply smiled if the girl happened to catch his eye when he looked her way, or if the reverse happened.

After all, that was all he could do.

**Thanks to:**

_Trillian42_ – Yeah, I've got some ten chapters beyond this, so I suppose we'll see the end of it. Thanks for reviewing it.

**Author's Note:**

Guys (and gals), would it really be so hard to click the damn "Submit Review" button? I work hard on these chapters, and I can't say I find it particularly easy to write at my best, nor do I find it very rewarding to receive three reviews for two chapters. I know most of you just want to read a good story, but I'd like some acknowledgement to come this way as to what you thought of it – whether it was crap or it was good, or you thought the characters were well-developed, or whatever. Just tell me whatever you thought was worth mentioning.


	4. A First Lesson

"Why are we above decks?"

"Air," he said. "It'll help you think. Trust me."

She also noticed – a bit uneasily, but he made no comment on it – that there was no one else around the decks. Perhaps he had asked them to go below so that they had more space to themselves; she didn't know why, but she felt slightly afraid of this man.

"Right, Lyra, let's start. Give me your head."

"What?"

"Let me touch your face. It will link us."

She wasn't too easily convinced that it would, but nevertheless she stepped forward. He put his hands – still gloved, she noticed with growing unease – on her face and looked her in the eyes, and suddenly she felt as if she were leaving her body behind. She almost broke the contact between them, but instinct kept her holding it, and he stayed linked to her. Though he did not approach the areas that seemed private to her – feminine mysteries that she thought had best remain hidden; the relationship between her and Pantalaimon – she still felt it an invasion of privacy.

"Don't worry about it," he whispered.

It took her a moment to realize the logic of it; if he was linked to her, it was only obvious that he would be able to read her thoughts, or see them, or feel them . . . well. He was in her mind, whatever the term was for it, and she was beginning to feel confused.

"Do you feel it yet?"

"No."

"You're focusing. Let your mind go slack."

She did as he said, and – wonderfully – she felt as if she had just combined with him. All four of them together, Pantalaimon and Leochleánne together with the two of them. It wasn't a physical bond like his hands on her temples; but she felt Vincent's male half, the outer half, and at the same time the feminine half represented by Leochleánne, and she saw that they were opposites: where Vincent was calm, cold, a person of air and water, fluid, mystical, and powerfully spiritual, Leochleánne was very much the opposite, angry and strong, fiery, full of flame and rock and brimstone, and very much a part of the present, of the physical world. Yet they fitted together _because _they were different.

And more than that, she realized that Vincent was very much unlike his daemon, but shared some characteristics; in the same way, she had some things that Pan did, but in others they were quite opposite. For how could it be that part of her nature was rational, and careful, and measured, and full of sinuous grace – and, more than that, masculine?

Lyra had been taught a bit of Asiatic philosophy while she had been at the school, and one of the things that the Chinese believed in was the principle of opposites; they had a peculiar symbol, a circle divided in perfect halves by a sinuous line, where one half was black, with a small white circle inside it, and the other was white, with the small circle in black . . . she thought they were called _yin _and _yang_. That was exactly how Vincent and Leochleánne worked together; they were perfect opposites, but in each of them they had enough of the other to appreciate and understand the wisdom that they did not have.

"That's right." He smiled. "As she keeps reminding me."

"So – this is a trance?"

"Trance state, yes. But at the moment, we are only sharing minds. I believe Will once knew of a pair of angels who had a similar link between them, except that they had no need for a physical connection such as this."

"Do humans always need one?"

"Not once two humans are attuned enough to each other. After I release you from this state, I will be able to contact you at a moment's thought, but you still have to work to do the same with my mind. Attuning oneself is an arduous task, and it takes work and energy as few tasks do, so you must be prepared."

"I am."

"Secondly," he continued, "the reason you only feel part of the trance state is that I am holding your head. But if you were to look about, your vision would be far different from what it has normally been. I will try to allow you to see that, if it is at all possible."

"How?"

"I will now separate myself physically from you, but I will maintain my contact with you through my mind. The moment I let go, you must cling to the remnants of my spirit in yours, or we will both enter a fugue – and there is no one else on the narrowboat with the ability to heal such a state."

"All right."

"Ready?"

Before she had said her defiant "yes," he had let go, and though her instinct was to be free of all his influence, she clung on as he'd told her, and found it easier than she had expected. She looked about and saw that her vision had become far sharper and more powerful; she was intensely aware of the world about her, of the little nicks in the boards of the narrowboat (put there by time, and once by a stray arrow, she could tell); of the peculiar noise that the narrowboat propellers made, she could tell the exact frequency. It was as if every entity contained a whole world within itself; as she thought of the boards, she found herself knowing the history of the trees that had become them; when her mind took to the propellers, she found she knew where the mines were that had produced them. Finally, she felt Vincent's spirit come back into her, much more strongly, and she closed her eyes, feeling exhausted. She had seen far too much.

"I understand the exhaustion."

"Does it always happen?"

"Nearly. It takes time to be comfortable with that amount of awareness; besides, few can do right off what you've just done, delved into the depths of time that way. I've been able to do similar things for a long time, Lyra, but rarely have I seen a person with such an aptitude for it. You should be proud. Not many have this gift."

With that, Vincent's spirit left her completely, and what little energy remained in her seeped away with him. She nearly fell back into his arms, but she caught herself.

"I think I need to sleep."

"You feel tired now, yes, but you'll get your energy back. Besides, I'll be right here beside you, and that will give you enough energy to keep going for a few hours."

"Vincent, _I need to sleep_."

"Fine. We'll try it one more time, at least, to familiarize you."

He was behind her, from what she heard, but when she opened her eyes, there he was again, with his hands on her temples, and his spirit again flowed into her, carefully this time – he seemed to be giving less of himself to the consciousness they now shared.

"This will be more like your own trance state, if not quite there, but we'll soon get to that. I need you to hold this for as long as you can"–because, of course, he would know that exhaustion was slowly invading her–"in order to tire you out properly. Then . . ."

"I can sleep?"

"Of course. Any questions?"

She had forgotten that Vincent was her teacher, not so much a friend, and felt that barrier now interposing itself between them, and realized that she had been discourteous to remind him constantly of her exhaustion, when she had agreed to follow his orders.

"As I said to you before, a bagatelle, Lyra."

"What?"

"Your company is all I ask in return for this teaching," he said, smiling (though her eyes were closed; how did she know his expression?), "which, indeed, you are giving me right now. I ask nothing else. Now, I feel that exhaustion is getting to you. I shall now release you from this link, and we'll take you down to your cabin, where you can sleep. If you feel _anything_ strange during the night, you should come to me in the morning. It is not uncommon for things to attack a weakened mind such as yours, which is why I shall detail Leochleánne to stand by you during that time."

It was then that she realized, Pantalaimon and Leochleánne were both far away from their humans; but in her that was normal. Why was Vincent able to do it?

"Are you a witch?"

"No, though my world has them. No, Lyra, Leochleánne and I can separate over a large distance, such as you and Pantalaimon can do, because we are aware of each other, and we know perfectly where the other will be, and as long as we have that in the back of our minds, we are never truly apart; so whatever distance is between us is negated."

"That makes sense, at least."

"True. Well, now you are released"–that was true; she felt herself completely free of his spirit–"and with this said, I will help you down to your cabin. In other words, class is dismissed, as it's nearly seven o'clock and I really must be helping Ma Costa with the dishes or she'll be after my blood."

"I think I can–"

She was about to say "go on my own," but then she faltered, and she found that Vincent had already been there to catch her. He half-supported her all the way below and into her cabin, helped her fall into bed without breaking a few bones, even, and placed the snowy owl – who perched on his shoulder with an unreadable expression; instead of its usual disgust, she seemed to express a sort of sympathy now – on a cabinet as he left.

"Sleep well, Lyra, and we'll see each other tomorrow."

He did something next that, Lyra sensed, he hadn't dared to do before, but felt that after their sharing of minds he was right to do, and on a sudden impulse – she knew how that was; she saw the way he moved – kissed her forehead before he left, and stroked her hair back, so that it did not cover her face as she slept, and smiled at her as he left.


	5. Opposites Attract

"You shouldn't have touched your lips to her flesh."

"Are we going to start on it again, Leochleánne? I care no longer."

"Be it your own burial, Vincent. I will stay out of it."

That was the way he liked the bird best, when she decided to ignore him, mark him as an immature being who would never grow up, and leave him to his own devices. In that state of dubious grace, he could do as he wished for the most part, with at most only the tacit – and therefore unimportant, though insidious – disapproval of the owl.

"You were told of the dangers."

"I care not for them. Leochleánne, you know how much I want her."

"I also know how much she wants another being, another thing women apparently understand far better than men. It is not your place to decide her heart's desire for her."

"Oh? And what did the Watchers do?"

"The Watchers, as you know well, could do little more than that in their situation. You, who have dispensed their duty for a year, must already know the hard choice it is."

"Doesn't mean I like it."

"You never had to. Damn it, Vincent, that girl _is _a Watcher, even if she doesn't know it. The way she reacted so strongly to both of us, I felt as if every feeling in me was laid bare. And I remembered the moment when you saw me, and it was then that I felt–"

"Whole, I know."

He did know. It surged through every one of his nerves. He sat there; for though he had told Lyra he would leave, he had not said anything about coming back, and he had not been able to keep himself out of her chamber for much longer. The pull of her scent was too strong, and he returned within an hour or so, though with a sheaf of paper.

"At least you brought something to occupy you."

"Writing, yes," he said. "I may not be a good warrior, or a good healer, or a good explorer, as many of these people were, but I am at least somewhat of a storyteller."

"And somewhat of a philosopher. The only good thing about you."

"Where would I be without you, Leochleánne?"

"Probably hurting, half-dead, or fully dead, I don't know."

She had taken the question seriously, of course, as she took everything. That was another difference in them; fire was not playful, it was dead serious, and stone was an implacable matter, while wind and water were calm, fluid, sinuous, and quite tricky.

"She is beautiful, Leochleánne."

"And if that beauty were meant for you, you would know it."

"I didn't mean it as an argument. I'm simply saying that – you can understand what I mean? Daemons have a concept of beauty as profound as we do, don't they?"

"Deeper. And far more spiritual."

"Well, I can't discuss temptations of the flesh with you, at any rate. Leochleánne, she is the most beautiful being I have ever seen, and my heart beats much quicker when I am near her. And you tell me that I cannot have her? Condemn me to death at once."

"Lyra should decide for herself who her heart belongs to, Vincent, and I use that expression because you do, though something like a heart has so much grace – and such subtle edges to it – that it would be crass, and stupid, to speak of it as a belonging."

"Truly said."

"Speaking of which, Vincent, I've been reviewing her consciousness – in the form of a few others, so that she doesn't think we're intruding. It seems she heard Xaphania talk about _imagination_ in front of the boy, and she explained to him that a friend of his could help him do it. Whatever she told him, it sounds like what you're teaching Lyra."

"I know. Imagination . . . it used the faculty, anyway."

"Another skill you've got, though I hate to admit it."

He grinned and wrote a few sentences. They weren't powerful sentences as he might have written had he been practiced at the art, but haphazard words struck together, yet they had a grace to them that all the orderly wisdom of the world could never match. He simply knew, more than he thought he knew, that they fitted, and so he wrote.

"Vincent, you shall have to be very careful. Love is an opiate."

"Just like religion," he said and laughed. "She belongs to Saint Sophia's?"

"That's what I've managed to pry out of her mind."

"_Sophia_, indeed! The female version of God, and the Greek word for wisdom. An excellent choice for Dame Hannah to name her college that," he said, and smiled, "seeing as how she'd be teaching a child like Lyra. I wonder how she's been there?"

"All right, or she'd be sadder, no?"

"Well . . . I suppose she thinks of Will a lot."

The owl did not ignore the sting of jealousy that came into the young man's voice. In Lyra's earshot he would have held himself back, and acted sweet and kind, but outside of it he had no such manacle, and Leochleánne glared at him with gold-eyed reproach.

"Vincent, she loves the boy. I can't change that, and you certainly can't, whether you try it by force or by persuasion. She has to come to the realization that she may not love him, and then – _only _then," for he had begun to speak, "can you tell her this. It isn't fair to her, to Will, to you, to all three of us daemons, or to our worlds, otherwise."

"Well put," was all he replied.

For a time, all fell silent, but it was short, because Lyra soon stirred. He quickly counted the hours; it had probably been five or six hours since he had come in here, but the conversation had started recently, and probably hastened her awakening. He put away his papers and pen, glared at the owl in case she thought of saying anything, and waited for Lyra to wake up completely. He could tell it was daybreak, or close to it.

"Pan . . . where . . . who is that . . . Vincent?"

"I'm here."

"What are you doing in my room?"

He held himself back for a few moments, but then he had to laugh, and at the same time so did his daemon, and Lyra found herself confused; she had no idea that these two were laughing at the curious way she looked when she had just woken up, with her disheveled hair, tired eyes, caked lips, and Pantalaimon in the same state . . . well.

Presently he stopped laughing, and so did Leochleánne, and Lyra was able to look at them without feeling embarrassed; had she done something wrong, or look strange?

"Watching over you," he said, "and writing."

"I thought the bird was here for that . . . Leochleánne . . ."

"She doesn't do a thorough enough job of it. In any case I like to make sure that my pupil is doing well, especially as you're my first one, and it would be the death of me if any harm came to you. Besides, you were asleep, so I could write without disturbance."

"You write?"

"Of course. Those are my three interests: education, because I teach, philosophy, because I ask, and literature, because I write. We could go much farther than that, if we were to talk about my life, but I get a sense that yours is far more interesting–"

"No, go on, talk about your life, I want to hear."

"Lyra, are you flattering me?"

"Just . . . go on, right, talk about your life. I en't stopping you."

He suddenly realized that she had dropped back into her Oxford voice, and for a moment wondered if that voice came to her when she was half-awake and half-asleep, and only at those moments, or perhaps it came when she thought of other worlds . . . and of Will, Leochleánne reminded him with another golden glare. Goddamned bird.

"Very well, I'll tell you, if you want to know so badly.

"I was born in Scotland, as I told you, to Ignatius Percival Cole and his wife, a lady by the name of Glenn. She knew little about her husband's work, but she was a wise woman, and she understood what I wanted to do in life; so she helped me learn, and in that I learned that I wanted to teach. She let me ask questions, and she would answer some, but to others she would make me look for the answer, until my head ached. And she knew well that I had something with words, and that I could weave a story – perhaps as well as you could, Lyra, I don't know – and she encouraged that most of all, because my blood is Celtic, Lyra, and the Celts have always valued the stories and songs of bards.

"And when I was ten, my mother died, and my father was away, so they – the men who took charge of my father's affairs, Parliament officials – sent me off to the Royal Metaphysical Institute in Southampton, and I nearly killed myself there, because I was alone and could do little in the world. But I knew that the people there were interested in me, and in other children, all of whom had particularly vivid minds and imaginations . . . a faculty that adults tend to suppress, and as a result it grows rusty. They performed several tests on me, but I seemed perfectly normal to them, and so they let me leave. My father was back by then, and he took his manor back and got his money from the government, the Scottish government–"

"Scotland's free?"

"In my world, yes, anyway–_listen_, Lyra–my father returned, and he taught me many things, and among them was a way to cross between worlds. He knew of worlds where the openings had had to close, because the Dust, the conscious matter, that escaped the edges of the gates, was leaving the worlds. And more than that, he showed me that the worlds had creatures that wanted consciousness, mature consciousness, and were willing to do anything and everything to get at it. He called them Specters of Indifference.

"And just after that, I crossed over to a world at random, hoping to find a good one, and I realized that I was stranded here, for I knew not the way back home. I do not know what kept me in good health, though I've been here since Leochleánne settled into that shape, except perhaps this strange . . . awareness. It was at first as strange to me as it is to you, Lyra, but it remained with me, and it allowed me to keep myself alive and in my full health. And I didn't know it then, but as I grew, I began drawing conclusions, and I soon realized that this was why the people of my world had no problem against Specters or with crossing between worlds. The people of my world, Lyra, had no daemons like your world's people do. Their daemons . . . were their subconscious minds.

So there I was, half in your world, with Leochleánne as my daemon, and half in mine, with what my father had taught me. And then . . . I did what I could. I survived."

**Thanks To:**

_Readers _– The 11 people who I assume took the time off to read the last chapter. Even if only one of you stopped to read it in its entirety, that fills my heart with happiness. I still would like reviews, however, if you found any aspect of the story particularly striking – in a good or in a bad way.


	6. The Watchers

That afternoon, Lyra went above decks, only to come running back below and tell Vincent that something was waiting for him. Yet he only told her calmly to go back there, and soon enough followed her, for all the world as though he had expected the call.

Perhaps he had.

The being they saw there was one that Lyra knew, but she had not seen it – _her_ – for many years. Her name was Xaphania, and she was an angel, and the last time she had seen this angel, she had seen her while she held Will in her arms and he held her in his. This time, she dared not huddle close to Vincent for that warmth, though she presently felt as if he needed her to. The angel touched her bare feet lightly upon the ground.

"Greetings, Vincent. I hope I find you well."

"Well enough, Xaphania. Speak at length, if you please. What brings you to this world? I would hear of news from the other Watchers."

Watchers?

Wasn't that the name for the angels? Suddenly she realized that Vincent spoke to Xaphania as if he spoke to an equal, and instinctively wanted to tell him to be respectful, but then she saw that Xaphania accepted that, and fell silent, to hear what the angel said.

"You have done well to find Lyra, Vincent, and it is imperative that you continue your teachings. You have exactly fifteen more days of travel, if I am correct."

"To the roping?" Lyra asked.

"To Sveden, which is where this roping will take place," Vincent replied. "I can teach her enough to travel between worlds, at that rate, and perhaps a bit more."

"You need not teach her how to do it herself, Vincent, as you must accompany us to the next Council. The First expects both of you to be there at the session."

"Does he, now? How _is_ Hieronymus?"

"Getting older. Have you told the child about this?"

"No, he hasn't," Lyra said. "What're you two talking about?"

"Lyra, you know that angels are sometimes called Watchers. Well, Xaphania, and other angels, decided to create a new group of Watchers that would encompass beings of every type, from human to angel to Gallivespian to _mulefa_ to whatever else there is in all the worlds . . . the idea was to join them together into one gigantic army, because though your father struck the first blow in the fight against the Authority, we must finish it."

"Lord Asriel's army destroyed much of the Authority's forces," Xaphania now added, "and the Authority itself disappeared during that battle, but there are still powerful angels who reside in the Chariot, and they fight still against those of us who fight for wisdom. The idea of the Watchers was to assure us that not only angels fight for wisdom, but that there are other beings who do the same . . . your kind calls them 'philosophers.'"

"Not Lyra's kind, they don't. They call them 'heretics.'"

"True," Xaphania said, and Lyra was surprised to see her smile, "but you see, it is that which brings us to why we chose to name ourselves the Watchers. You are right; that is a name sometimes given to angels. The reason we called this 'army' the Watchers is because, as every being becomes conscious of itself, and reaches the higher realms of that consciousness, you slowly take tentative steps towards leaving your humanity behind. For human beings do have consciousness of their own, and that could do great things, as Vincent has shown you – but it is difficult to reach a higher realm from this physical one. Thus, it is your consciousness that must first rise, and then all of you will follow it, and you will have taken your first few steps towards becoming a higher class of being."

"I wouldn't use the word 'class,' Xaphania."

"No matter what word one uses, Vincent, it would seem prejudiced."

He nodded; obviously he found that to be a logical realization. Lyra suddenly realized what they spoke of; they spoke of becoming angels! Every being was meant to be an angel, by earning their highest degree of wisdom . . . all beings would be angels.

"So what Vincent is teaching me helps me become an angel?"

"Whatever anyone taught you would put you a step closer to becoming an angel. Yet even if your human lifetime was longer, you would still be very far away from that goal. The reason Vincent's teachings put you even closer is because they deal directly with the soul, where realization is at once easier and harder, and as you delve into your own spirit, you will discover that it is capable of greater things than you alone."

"Let's not drown her in teachings, Xaphania."

"On the contrary, Vincent, these are the most basic principles among thousands that she could learn. As you are conscious of yourself – as you 'philosophize,' you will be closer to an angelic form . . . though no mortal being could ever truly be an angel."

"Too true. Thank you, Xaphania."

"Goodbye, Vincent. Remember where you must be."

With that, the angel disappeared from their sight in a few more moments. Lyra looked up at where she had been, but she could see nothing of her face, and instead she chanced a glimpse at Vincent, who was smiling in that strange way of his.

"What did she mean by 'the Council?'"

"The Watcher Council. There are only about fifty Watchers currently, so they all form a sort of governing authority. The idea is that when the Watchers become a large enough body, there will be a number among them who are more experienced already."

"And you're . . ."

"The thirty-seventh Watcher. You are the fifty-first . . . or fifty-second."

"When will we go?"

"Oh, the Council lasts as much time as we want it to. It would not start without us, so it will have to wait until I have taught you to cross worlds, for it is dangerous for both of us if I were to bring you with me when I did that."

"Will we go into Will's world?"

"Probably. It is a world I've crossed into."

"Do you travel often between worlds?"

He chose not to answer that until they were both below decks, but when he did, he had a heartrending look in his eyes, and his hands shook as they touched the railings.

"What a question to ask, Lyra!"

"I'm sorry . . . should I have asked that?"

"No, it's quite all right. I daren't travel between worlds except to the Watchers, not after . . . well . . . what happened the last time I went to my world. Something went horribly wrong, and I don't know what, but by the time it was over . . . best not to speak."

"I'm really sorry, Vincent."

"It's all right. You didn't know, Lyra."

Nevertheless she noticed that his voice, which towards her had been so warm, was hardened and edgy. She had struck a nerve in him, and he looked all the worse for it.

"Vincent–"

"I have to go to sleep."

He was heading for his cabin; before he could reach the door, she put herself between the door and his body. He stopped, and she saw his tired face sag and fall.

"Can I stay with you?"

"That's not even a possibility, Lyra."

"What do you mean?"

"Believe me, I wouldn't mind your company, Lyra, but I'm not allowed to come near you unless it's as a teacher. The First would be after my blood if I broke that rule."

"But you wouldn't be breaking rules if I stayed with you."

"Lyra–"

"Vincent, I'm not asking to lie in your bed, damn it! I'm asking if you can just let me sit by you while you sleep! What do I do if something happens while you're asleep?"

"I can't do that."

"I'm going in there."

"I know." He grinned. "That doesn't mean I'm letting you."

He pushed her away – not forcefully – and closed the door, but she didn't hear the lock click. A minute later, she came in, and he was already under the sheets, his jacket hung up on the back side of the door. She found a chair near the bed and sat down, and presently his eyes opened, warm as always.

"Hello again, Lyra."

"Hello, Vincent."

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm learning."

"Really."

"Yes." She grinned at him. "I'm learning how a Watcher sleeps."

"I doubt Hieronymus would accept that as a legitimate excuse."

Nevertheless he fell asleep, even if Lyra was there by his side. He had no power over her; he could not decide what she did. If he did this, he thought, it would be no different than if she had picked the lock – which he knew was an easy task, even if one wasn't the most skilled at it.

"Lyra?"

"Yes?"

"Good night."

**Thanks to:**

_Readers – _The six people who, so far, read my last chapter.

_Katherine _– I normally wouldn't play out so much of the dialogue, but this story is meant to move on at a slower pace. I type this on six pages, double-spaced, but trust me, it'll pick up the pace, I believe, as the story continues. I'm right now trying to get the energy up to write some particularly heavy chapters – that is, if you stick with the story a while longer . . .


	7. A Second Lesson

They were twelve days from the funeral site – or so she knew from listening to Vincent – when he decided it was time to give her a second lesson. At six o'clock sharp, she reported to the deck and found it deserted once again, except for him and the owl that flew about as if checking for enemies; however, when she appeared, she returned to the proffered, black-cloaked shoulder and ruffled her feathers impatiently.

"First, I must tell you that Xaphania visited again, while you were asleep."

"Really?"

"She did not wish to see you at the time. It was to tell me that you are, indeed, the fifty-first Watcher. It seems that the fifty-second has become irredeemable, and can no longer be considered a Watcher, so you will have the honor of being the first Watcher on the Council by vote, not by automatic assignment."

As usual, she understood nothing.

But at least she was getting accustomed to that. Vincent had now taught her much of the underlying theory; though he had stressed that only the practice would achieve her true understanding of it, she now knew about fugue states, and had survived a grueling fifteen-minute quiz on simple trances and mind transference. She even thought she had caught her mind gravitating towards Vincent's once or twice; how else would she know what color his underwear was, or what he drank when he couldn't sleep? It seemed to happen when she was asleep and Leochleánne watched over her.

"Shall we begin?"

"I'd like that."

"Good," Vincent said and smiled at her. "This time, I am going to test your ability to attune your mind. After this exercise, Lyra, we will be inextricably linked; you will be always able to enter your mind, and I yours, until either one of us dies. Should it happen while we share minds, both of us will die – both our conscious beings will be gone. On the other hand, sharing minds will help us in certain circumstances."

"Like what?"

"You will see," he replied. "I have received Ma Costa's permission to take you to the Council the day after the funeral, which means that our lessons will be more frequent as I must finish teaching you how to cross worlds and transfer your entire body. We will not complete the entire discipline; instead, you will know enough of crossing worlds to be able to do it alongside a more experienced Watcher, but you will be able to displace yourself whenever needed." He paused. "Or so I hope."

"Displace myself?"

"Change location. Watch."

She focused her eyes on him – but after a moment, he disappeared. She wondered if her eyes were focused too much to see him, but then she felt a hand on her shoulder, and looked behind her to see Vincent there, smiling as warmly as ever.

"This is corporal displacement."

"And crossing worlds?"

"Oh, we won't be going into that today."

"Then what will we do?"

"I want to show you how to free your mind from your body. This is the crossroads of Watcher philosophy; once you reach this point, many doors open, but strangely, few will close. Be prepared to expand the horizons of your consciousness, Lyra; few beings, I warn you, have undergone this process before, and you are as well prepared as can be."

"I'm ready."

"We shall begin, then. Lie down."

She did as he ordered, and was surprised to find him lying down beside her a few moments later. When she raised an extremely questioning eyebrow, he simply smiled.

"This is marginally more comfortable, and will avoid bruises."

"Bruises?"

"On your head. We will be leaving our bodies behind for this experience, and thus it would be prudent to place them where a fall would not be very likely. And do not care for water damage," he said suddenly. "There's very little chance of it raining."

"When do we begin?"

"_I have already begun_," a ghostly voice said above her.

She looked up to see a shift in the sky that was unmistakably Vincent; though the being looked nothing like the Scotsman, the change in the air carried some quality of his that couldn't be duplicated. The being walked over to her and sat down.

"_You must not allow the world to fetter you._"

"To fetter me?"

"_Do not allow the physical world to restrain you; but do not fight for it, either. You must simply allow yourself the luxury of leaving your body behind. Your conscious being has developed to the point where it is able to make such demands upon its host; I will help, if necessary, but you should be able to do it on your own now._"

"I should?"

"_Yes, try it now. Remember . . . let go._"

She found that it was almost impossible: whatever bonded her soul and mind to her body held on with an inescapable might. But slowly, she managed to convince it: it was as if she had said, "Yes, I know, you want me here, but I won't be gone forever, I'll be only a little while," and that reassured whatever bonds those were to release her. She then felt her spectral feet touch the ground, but soon found that she was hovering a few centimeters, just as Vincent was, simply by wishing to.

"Did I do it right?"

"Perfectly." His voice sounded normal now.

"Where shall we go now?"

"Wherever you wish, Lyra," he replied, smiling. "In this form, the possibilities are – if you'll forgive the cliché – endless. We may move around and through worlds as we wish, for none but other Watchers will detect us. If you do not have knowledge of the theory, it is hard to develop to the point where you will see disembodied beings."

"Quite," she said. "How do we move, though?"

"Why, as you just did. A simple wish will be enough."

"Just a _wish_?"

"Just a wish," he replied, smiling. "Only a wish. For in this state, we lose all but the soul and mind, Lyra. You must have noticed your emotions feel lessened in this state; they are part of what links the body to the soul and mind, and thus have been left behind. Instead, we are left only with thought and consciousness, but when that is concentrated in the human being, Lyra, nothing else matters. The worlds are, collectively, our oyster."

"Eh?"

"A metaphor. Now, we shall go off the boat, and rise about five meters above the ground. Once we have reached that height, I want to show you something."

"What?"

"You'll know."

He rose into the air; she followed, still not certain that this wishing knack would hold, but astonishingly, she was able to float up into the air as easily as breathe, and her body – disembodied though she was – felt much better as she flowed through the air. She hadn't even realized it, but there had been a weight on her phantasmal lungs all this time; now, suddenly, it was gone, and most of her worry with it. She had nerves no longer.

"That was not a weight in your lungs, it was your nerves holding you back."

"How d'you know?"

"I felt the same way when this was taught to me. Now, Lyra, you will please follow me; the attunement of an unprepared mind best takes place when the mind is alone and unguarded by the selfish interests of the body. We will also do it as high as possible, so that the air does not alter your spectral being – as I'm sure you haven't noticed."

"What?"

But when she looked down, she realized that the air indeed _had _altered her form; she could not see herself, and in fact, she realized that in this form she could no longer see Vincent. She had not noticed it before because she could see his thoughts . . .

"Rise."

She followed him, and slowly, both of them came into better visibility. After five or six minutes in the air – about forty meters up – Vincent's eyes were finally visible. But he barely stopped before he said "faster," and up he went, leaving her in his wake. She again followed, straining every inch of her spectral body, until they'd reached somewhere around two hundred meters. But even then their lower limbs were gone; Vincent smiled at her when she looked down and saw the world so small below her.

"We'll rise much farther than this, Lyra."

"How far?"

"Oh, around twenty-five thousand kilometers."

"_What_?"

"You're a specter, remember? You no longer need to breathe, so this won't do you a bad turn in the least. Follow me upwards, Lyra, there is much we need to do, and it will darken soon on the ground. Oh," he added hastily, though casually, "careful in any case. Air pressure changes can still cause lightheadedness."

"I'll be all right."

"You will. But I have to warn you."

As they rose further into the air, Lyra rather thought she saw a faint smile on the spectral face that belonged to Vincent. Somehow, she could tell that this was the real and unadulterated him, without the fetters of the world to bind him. And in the same breath, she sensed that she, too, had freed herself from all false natures and misconceptions.

Yet she sensed that this was only a taste of ultimate liberty . . .

**Thanks to:**

_Readers _– The two hundred fifty-four people who've taken the time to read this story. I'm making it a habit now to thank my readers, not just my reviewers.

_Katherine _– Thanks for the vote of confidence. I'll do my best not to disappoint.


	8. A Most Special Observation

**Thanks to:**

_Readers_ – Thanks for taking care of the chapter, once again.

_Katherine_ – Nah . . . and as you can see, they're definitely not dead.

They had risen to twenty-five thousand kilometers, and Lyra had begun to feel a bit giddy at some point during the journey – but she appeared to have grown accustomed to it, for now her lightheadedness calmed. Vincent had stayed beside her on the ascent, but now he was a few hundred meters away; she could feel the distance between them as acutely as if they were one being. Yet she was carrying on a complete conversation with him; he had told her that she would have to, to attune her mind to his.

"Feel anything new just yet, Lyra?"

"No."

"You shouldn't." He laughed. "Keep on talking."

"About what?"

"Whatever you want."

"Fine . . . er . . . I . . . I don't know what to talk about!"

"Of course you do." He smiled at her. "Lyra, do you know how vast your archives of experience are? Few people in all the worlds can lay claim to such an impressive life."

Lyra really didn't care how vast her archives were or how impressive her life was, but cast her mind around and still couldn't find a good enough topic to occupy her mind. Finally, an image came to her, and she remembered the one subject that, despite all her questions to the girls at St. Sophia's, had never satisfactorily been able to answer . . .

"Vincent, what do you think love is?"

"Oh, now there's a hard question to answer, Lyra."

"Can you answer it?"

"I can try." His smile only grew. "Love, to me, Lyra, is at once the greatest and worst of all emotions and sentiments. Love empowers, strengthens, and encourages, but it also diminishes, weakens, and disheartens. It is thus that love is a tricky thing."

"Have you ever been in love?"

"Once, perhaps, in my life."

"With whom?"

"Oh, I shan't tell you that just yet." She raised a ghostly eyebrow. "Very well, Lyra, it was a young girl from Oxford, older than you. Do you know, I think she even looked like you. When I told you that you were my first pupil . . . well . . . I wasn't being entirely straight with you. This girl would have been, if she hadn't died first."

"No!"

"Hmm, she did, I'm not surprised, she was a weak slip of a girl always, and her father could do little to help. I brought her as much food as I could carry from Glasgow in four bags, and once I could displace myself, I used that method instead; but some disease caught her in the end, I'm afraid. If not, she would have been the fifty-first Watcher."

"What was her name?"

"Jessie Reynolds," he said miserably. "A saddler's daughter."

"Jessie–"

Lyra suddenly remembered something, a voice, coming back to her. It was Simon Parslow's voice, and he was saying . . . "_Jessie Reynolds, out the saddler's. She weren't there at shutting-up time yesterday, and she'd only gone for a bit of fish for her dad's tea. She never come back and no one'd seen her. They searched all through the market and everywhere._" They had assumed, of course, that the Gobblers had taken her.

"Oh, they very nearly did."

"What do you mean?"

"She escaped their notice by a hair, ducked into the wrong alley. I was busy at the time, but I was attuned to her, as I am now to you, and I felt her mental screams when the men came upon her. Leochleánne directed me, we ran to the spot, and took care of them – but Jessie hadn't been screaming because of the Gobblers; her chest had constricted too much. I took her to her family, crossed over into my world, and attempted to find any sort of medicine that could be used. But . . . well . . . my world wasn't at its best."

"Why? What happened?"

"You'd make a great straight woman someday, Lyra," he said, smiling. "It had fallen into strife and war. I had difficulty surviving; it seemed that the nations had forced the practice of crossing worlds to stop, and had killed most of those who were able to do it. The few who had banded together to escape their deaths left to other worlds soon after the first killings, and I was left alone, with no guidance. My father and family had been killed, their lands reassigned to another noble, and I found I had no money to use. In the end, I managed to steal medicine, but by the time I returned, Jessie had died.

"I don't know what happened, but when that girl died, I felt as if I had to learn all I could about traveling between worlds. I went to Cardiff, to Jordan College, to Gabriel, to every place I could think of, and I learned many things – but it did not satisfy me: I had to learn more. Eventually, I took to experimentation, and I expanded my consciousness far beyond the safe levels for me . . . but in return, I experienced a bliss I have never felt in my life, before or since, and I felt that it was my duty to return to this world. With her death, I knew that I would need a new pupil – which is where you come in."

Lyra mulled this over; though she'd learned to analyze stories this long while at the college (the girls never got tired of talking), she found this to be far more complicated than she'd assumed. In any case, she'd always assumed Jessie Reynolds had been her age – but then, if Vincent had known her, she must have been definitely older. And looked somewhat like her? She'd always pictured the girl as redheaded and freckly.

"No, trust me, she was blond – if much paler than you."

"Vincent . . . is this why you chose me?"

"No, I chose you because, quite frankly, it was either take you under my wing or have no pupil at all. And I preferred to impart what little wisdom life may have seen fit to give me at this stupid age to someone else, rather than allow it to stew and stagnate in this truly overworked brain. That would be a true dishonor to the years that went into it."

"I see . . ."

"You don't. But you will, eventually, and that matters more."

"Will I?"

"Yes. Feel different, Lyra?"

"N–" Just as she almost let out the "o," she felt a surge of power within her, and was immediately immobilized as some strange force absorbed her entire spectral being. For a few moments, she was alone, cut off from everything else; but then, like an angel, Vincent flew out of the sky and put his arms around her, and guided her slowly towards the ground, moving through the clouds, softly resisting the changing air, until she was quite calm when they had reached only two hundred meters above the ground. Then he released her, saw that she could once again move about on her own, and only smiled.

But had he known the changes wrought in her, he would have been surprised.

She felt her mind change completely, and then, as if to spite her for allowing it to hurt so badly, only a little part of it actually seemed to transform; it was a little part, yes, that she could feel at the back of her (disembodied) brain, and now that she thought about it, she sensed Vincent's awareness inside that little part. Yet as she reached for it–

"_No_!"

"What's wrong?"

"Do not _ever _touch someone else's mind just after attuning yourself to them, Lyra – unless you want to end up in a fugue state!" For once, he did not look happy; the lines on his face had all straightened and deepened. He appeared extremely angry. "You will follow my orders _to the letter_ from now on, or you will be the end of the Watchers."

"Vincent, what–"

"_To the letter_, Lyra."

"Y-Yes, yes, Vincent, but what's–"

"Wait until I allow you to do so," he said in a forced calm tone. "Now return to your body. It should have no difficulty to it. You have already completed the hard part."

A moment later, she woke up on the boat's deck.

Beside her, Vincent was already standing; she found trouble getting footing until he finally offered her a hand, and with that help was able to stand up, though the hand she grasped was no longer warm or friendly, but a cold mass of stone. She faced him and saw that whatever happiness there had been in him was gone; instead, she looked into the face of a man haunted by nightmares, whose shattered dreams lay on the ground about him.

"You may now touch my mind, Lyra."

"How?"

"Wish it."

"All right."

She simply wanted to touch his mind, to know what had made him react as he did – and she saw more than she had ever seen before in her lifetime, in this one person's mind. His thoughts were jumbled and dark, his emotions inextricably linked with each other, his memories were all of flames and shadows and deaths . . . and as she walked in his mind, she realized that all of it changed, that her presence brought to him some sort of order and stopped his pain and his sadness. She had been his antidote the entire time.

"That would be correct, Lyra. A most special observation to make."

"Why?"

"Because, Lyra, you have been willing to learn from me. That alone is enough to bring me happiness – though a pupil who disobeys my orders is one I have no use for."

"I'll follow them from now on, I swear."

"Good enough. We'll have another lesson soon."


	9. Mirrors of Night

"She is attuned to you now, is she not?"

"Only just, yes. But I shan't be monitoring her thoughts constantly, and I hope she abides by the courtesies I taught her not to do me that injustice."

"Because she would find out you love her?"

"That, Leochleánne, and many other things."

The owl ruffled her feathers, perched on his shoulder as usual. Reaching on eleven in the night, it was, and he was unable to sleep as always. He sat on the deck, a glass of scotch in one of his hands, still full – he'd been trying to sleep without drinking. In the night air, he felt somehow more free and more content than by day.

"Vincent, the masquerade is getting difficult to continue."

"Don't I know it."

"If it comes down to it, boy, you'll have to tell her. I would rather she feel guilty for a time than she find out from your own thoughts. That would hurt her more."

"I know, Leochleánne, I know . . ."

The owl simply looked him in the eye with her great big golden ones and shook her head – although that might have been a fly buzzing about. Sometimes he felt that here was where he truly planned his lessons, not when he wrote them down. The thought was sobering enough to make him down half the glass of scotch in a single gulp, though he immediately wished he hadn't as the liquor burned his mouth and throat.

"Careful there, Vincent."

"I can hold far more than a glass of scotch."

"Not when you're sad, you can't."

"True." He smiled, in spite of himself. "I wonder if she knows?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Lyra's been tapping into my thoughts involuntarily, or it would have taken much more than a single try to attune herself. She most probably knows where I am at the moment, even if it comes to her in the form of a dream."

"Actually, I couldn't sleep either."

He spun his head around and majestically cricked his neck doing so, but it was only Lyra. She sat down beside him, hugging her knees, and after a few minutes glanced at him. He noticed a very non-Lyra-like smile on her face, a tranquil, serene smile with no sort of deep-seated deception or charm in it. She was happy, and that was that.

"Why?"

"It's hard listening to you and Pan at the same time."

"I've had the same problem before."

She gave him the benefit of that beautifully quiet smile, and then laid her head on his shoulder. He felt Leochleánne's talons tighten on the other, but he wasn't paying too much attention to the owl at the moment. Instead, he put the glass of scotch on the deck without moving his shoulder much, and put his now free arm around her shoulders.

"It's a beautiful night, Vincent."

"Not quite as beautiful as you."

"Really?" She smiled up at him. "You think so?"

"No, not really. I know so."

He settled into a more comfortable position, shifting his weight slightly onto her, and stroked her hair as they sat there under the night sky. For a moment, he thought he saw the fleeting image of an angel; but it could have equally been a shooting star.

"I saw it too."

"Yes, I know. Quite a sight, this sky, isn't it?"

"It's lovely, Vincent."

He felt Leochleánne tighten even further; if she made her talons constrict any more, she would likely make him bleed, but he held the shoulder fast. She was warning him, after all, and that was her function; but now, in the night sky, he almost felt as if he didn't want anyone nearby while he was alone with Lyra. He told her this without words, however; a good daemon like her would know, and for once in her life, she accepted it all without question, and flew below decks, presumably to accompany Pantalaimon.

"Why'd she leave?"

"Who knows, Lyra. She's a complete question mark to me."

She grinned and lay closer to him, her chest pressing against his side, so that he completely encircled her with his arm about her shoulders, and he saw suddenly that she was crying. Not yet a full cry, to be sure, but he saw the tears in her eyes, and held her even tighter, though this only served to increase the rate at which she shook and sniffed.

"I'll never see him – never see him again . . ."

"Who, Farder Coram?"

"Him too . . . but I meant – I mean, you're not going to cross over into another world with me, aren't you? You won't let me . . . you just want to _teach _me how to . . ."

"That could not be farther from the truth, Lyra."

"Don't lie to me, Vincent! We're alone, the way you've wanted it since I stepped on this boat, and you're going to _lie _to me? Don't. Please."

"W-wait. I don't understand."

"You never do," she said, now sobbing against him. "Vincent, if I told you that I wanted to see Will again, and I told you that I hated you, would you accept that? Would you still teach me? Would you let me go when I decided to leave?"

"As long as you followed my orders, yes, I'd teach you."

"And you would let me go?"

"That wouldn't be up to me. The Watchers–"

She struck him, a backhand crack with not too much strength in it, but just enough for him to recoil and hold his cheek in amazement. Yet she continued to cry.

"Don't dodge the question."

"Lyra, what do you want me to say?"

"Just tell me the truth."

"The truth?" He scoffed. "The truth, Lyra, is that when you come into a room, my heart quickens a beat per minute. When you speak to me, I find it hard to breathe well enough to respond. When you touch me, even as much as a finger, my entire body feels as if it has been electrified. And yet I have to sit here, stolid, unmoving, for it is not my place, or anyone else's, to tell you who to love and what to do."

"Vincent . . ."

"Tell me, Lyra, have you ever danced in your life?"

Well, she had, if only for a few of the school's events. But she felt as if now, she couldn't say no, no matter what he asked her. He had shared a most intimate sentiment with her; dancing was possibly the least she could do in return.

"Don't do it because of that."

"Then–"

"Would you like to learn?"

"Yes," she said after a beat. "All right."

"Very well. Let us stand up, and I'll teach you _das Gespenst Steigend_."

"_Das _what?"

"A German piece," he replied immediately. "His composer was Fredric Martin Bindfaden, unique to my world. In most others, he was never born. It is an energetic one, so if you feel tired, we will stop. It would not be right to tire you on your first lesson."

"Is it hard?"

"Not particularly. The third, fifth, and ninth movements tend to be the fastest, but I won't teach them to you until the end. Now come, stand – it is already morning."

"How"–she stood and gave him her hand–"did you know?"

"An experienced eye."

He took one of her hands in his, placed her other hand on his shoulder, and placed his free arm around her. He drew her to him, then stepped to the left – she followed – and began a pattern that she learned, after several rounds. He would step to the left twice, to the right, to the front – and here he did a double step that tricked her the first time; in the same motion he stepped to the front, he stepped to the back. What amazed her was how he knew where every obstacle was, and how capably he danced around them; he seemed to know, instinctively, where the railing was, and could easily direct them around it. And yet all the time his eyes remained locked on hers, their hearts beating so close to one another. Lyra remained in his arms even after as they looked at the water. It was nearly three in the morning – they'd danced for two hours without stopping – and they again sat on the deck, Vincent having picked back up his glass of Scotch.

"You won't drink, will you?"

"Not if you don't want me to."

She took the glass of Scotch from him and threw it over the railing. For a moment Vincent seemed to be speechless, but then he simply smiled placidly and held her tightly.

"Thank you, Lyra."

"For what? I've done nothing."

"For helping me see the world the way it was meant to be seen."

"And how is that?"

"Oh, you'll know. Perhaps it's by age, but I doubt it – I think the world is far too random to give us knowledge after a set amount of time. No, Lyra, I think the way I see the world is a way where I know my purpose, and my goal."

"And what's that?"

"To be your teacher, at the moment. As for greater goals, we shall see . . . but for now, I am content to help your learning, and to allow you to become more conscious."

"No, you're not. But you will be."


	10. The Neutral Ground

Three days passed before Vincent decided on a third lesson, though they had been practicing what they'd already done – sharing minds, leaving the body – every night for at least an hour each exercise. She was becoming quite graceful at it.

Since the night they'd danced, she'd joined him every night, and had learned the first movement by heart – plus lost several pounds, just as he had. She never had thoughts of him drinking before sleeping; it seemed to be a serene retreat for him now. And she no longer heard reports of his bedclothes being damp with sweat, as she had before. He was sleeping much better, and she knew – without knowing, as usual – that she had caused it.

Yet during their dances together, she thought now that there was more than one reason for him to keep his eyes locked to hers; she had begun to see shadows in the air, moving behind him, just so, just so, out of her direct sight, but the corners of her eyes caught them. Were they ghosts? After all, the dance's title meant "The Rising Ghost . . ."

"You're early, Lyra."

"I wanted to talk to you."

"That could be done during the lesson. There's something specific on your mind, isn't there? Out with it. I can't teach you if you're distracted."

"Why am I seeing things during our dances?"

"Oh, those, yes." He grinned, to her surprise. "I suppose you thought those were ghosts? They are, almost. They're the spirits of long-gone daemons. Since you and Will freed them, as I've been told, they've been able to regain some small measure of their previous existences . . . though sadly not enough to be physical to us."

"And their humans?"

"Oh, close by, of course, but a human's consciousness will take far more time to assemble than a daemon's. It would conceivably take ten or twenty times more; imagine, Lyra, that it has taken five years for them. It would take fifty for even one human!"

"Then why during the dance?"

"The only reason you see them during the dances we do, and at no other time, is firstly because it is dark, and secondly because you are focused on my eyes. You cannot see something as highly sensitive as a daemon-spirit with your direct vision; you would have to use your peripheral vision, or it would run away, afraid of you."

"I see . . . I think, in any case."

"Well, we should do them justice with today's lesson. Now that our minds are all attuned to each other, there is little we have left to go before we make an actual crossing into another world. However, we will try to make one now, separating our bodies from our minds as we did once before. At any time, you may touch my mind for guidance – I will do my best to help you, but there are things about worlds that I do not know."

"Where will we go?"

"Since you seemed so enthusiastic about it, Will's world."

She noted no cynical bite in his voice, no sardonic laugh, no indication that he felt the pain she had forced onto him when she had as good as told him she did not love him and never would. Was he at peace with the fact, or had he simply pushed it below?

"Vincent–"

"It is done to help you, Lyra, as you already are familiar with it."

"I'm not, I've only seen Oxford in it–"

"Very well, then, we shall go to Oxford."

"Vincent . . . are you _sure _you want to go?"

"Actually, I don't, Lyra," he said, still smiling. "I don't want to go at all. But then, one of my sacrifices as a teacher is to yield to my pupil's wishes every now and then."

She reddened.

Vincent smiled, patted her back affectionately, and lay down on the deck again; she followed suit a moment later. Their eyes locked, and Lyra thought she saw a glimmer of adventure in Vincent's eyes, but a minute later, it was gone, replaced by his ghostly voice from above her. Another moment passed before she was able to separate – having forgotten her routine for this somewhat – but she managed it.

"You'll get better."

"I know. How shall we do it?"

"Crossing between worlds . . . well, it's certainly a much harder process. We will begin by entering the crossroads between worlds, what is known as the Neutral Ground, and from there head on to Will's world. It's entirely possible to bypass the Ground, but out of the fifty Watchers we have active, only one can do it, and that's Hieronymus."

"Your leader."

"And founder, yes. Now come, we shall be late if we do not hurry."

Though Lyra wondered how they could be late if no one knew of their arrival, she followed along nevertheless; Vincent rose about three hundred meters in the sky, by now his entire body visible at that height. For one moment, she saw his expression of serious, effortful concentration – and then, as if the sky itself was rippling, waves of some energy that was beyond her brain to understand soared through the sky, and ripped open at their center, and there was the huge portal, a great big violet and white beast.

"We go inside this?"

"That's correct."

"How do I make one?"

"I'll show you on the return trip. For now, just learn how to travel through portals and the Ground, or else it won't matter if you can make a portal."

"Fine."

She followed him in; the moment her feet touched the "ground" inside, the portal closed behind them. They were inside what looked like a never-ending tunnel of verdant winds, punctuated by crimson shocks of lightning that ran around the edges every now and then. Vincent suddenly grabbed her and yanked her to the side; a moment later, one of the lightning shocks struck the very spot where she had been standing.

"Thank you."

"It was nothing. Learn from it – traveling within a portal is difficult. One must be alert at all times, avoiding both the shocks and, if necessary, any enemies that may enter the portal after one. Trust me, you _do not _want to get into a fight in one of these."

"Wouldn't the Costas notice this in the air?"

"Oh, of course. But then, that's how I got onto their ship, so I doubt they were too surprised when this one opened." He guided her over one of the shock paths. "Lyra, it is not an easy matter to travel between worlds. That is why so few can do it. Watchers are no more impervious to these dangers than to any other human." Another shock path. "We will return to these pathways several times, and I must ask you to be with me every step of the way. Do not worry if you tarry behind, but only if you cannot reach the end."

"All right."

"Now come with me."

And so they went, picking their way across like crabs, taking a step every minute or so, at such a rate that they reached the end of the portal about an hour later. She floated out first, into a place that looked – and felt – dull gray, no matter where she went. Then she realized she was still disembodied. She had been meaning to put a question about that to Vincent when he emerged as well and answered it for her – as usual.

"Inside the portal, we were in a place where reality transforms, and we could be solid. Here, we are once again disembodied, but we still have some power. Here, Lyra, is a place where consciousness is a major force, and where a single thought can change all there is inside the Neutral Ground."

"How?"

"Like this."

Vincent screwed up his face for a moment, and suddenly, the entire place turned into the hills of Scotland that she'd seen that night in her vision. She looked at the trees and suddenly realized one very important thing.

"You brought me here!"

"Yes, I did." He smiled. "Pretty, isn't it?"

"Very – but Vincent, wouldn't this just make everybody too powerful?"

"No. The fact that another force can change what you already did balances it out. Go on, try it. Call up a memory of a place you liked to visit and concentrate hard enough, and it should – no. It _will _come out. Trust me."

"What should I–"

"Any place."

She concentrated on the Botanic Gardens she had been in with Will . . . and when she let the memory overtake her thoughts, she looked about, and found that the Ground had become the Gardens, as beautiful as they had been in reality. She looked at Vincent, amazed, and floated down closer to the bench, and felt it with her spectral fingers.

"Go on. If you remember the touch, you'll feel it."

She remembered the feeling of the oaken wood keeping her back straight, and she was able to sit there and relax her thoughts. A minute later, she wondered if it worked with other humans; Vincent simply nodded, turned away from her – she guessed he was watching for any dangers – and floated upwards. She called up the memory of Will's love and his hands, and his voice . . . and in the next heartbeat, he was there, older than she remembered him, more muscular, but still as handsome, and with a look that spoke tomes upon tomes of his amazement at seeing her once again. He fell into her arms without her telling him anything, and Lyra felt once more the feeling of having discovered something new. She had just equaled Vincent's feat, and hadn't he been learning for years?

"Lyra, is it you?"

"It's me, Will."

Lyra suddenly realized something: though Pantalaimon wasn't with her, Kirjava, Will's cat daemon, was sitting beside them, admiring the subtle colors of her own fur. She made a mental note to put that question to Vincent when she saw him next, for he had even vanished from her mind; she no longer felt him reachable with her thoughts, and for the first time since she met him, the feeling that all of her – mind, body, soul – was being scrutinized had disappeared.

**Author's Note:**

This is likely one of the few times I'll make a double post in chapters. I felt it was necessary because of my short hiatus from writing, and it would help me get back on hurrying up the chapters. Right now, just so you guys see where I'm coming from, I'm on chapter seventeen.

Also, I would like to ask readers to please supply me with comments on the length of these chapters. If you feel they're too long, I'll gladly shorten them – right now each one is four pages on double spaced, 12 point Times New Roman – or if you think they're too short, I'll see how I can lengthen them. Both would be kind of difficult, because I make each chapter a single unit in and of itself, but I could easily work for the reader's benefit here.

Nothing else to add, thanks. Enjoy!


	11. Armageddon

With the dream-self of William Parry in tow, Vincent and Lyra managed it to a point a three-person portal could be built. Though Will, just as Lyra herself, stared when the portal opened, he unhesitatingly entered it, and Lyra after him. The moment Vincent got inside, he mentally closed the back edge of the portal.

"Go forth, you two. Watch yourselves."

Lyra, good girl that she was, tried not to look behind her at him. Vincent felt the shock running through his body; she had minded his feelings, for once. Perhaps he had a chance at reforming this girl after all. Feeling for that piece of conscience Leochleánne always had in his brain, he seized on it and brought it to the forefront.

"You did right, Vincent."

"Did I?"

"You gave her the choice. That's always right."

Vincent scoffed. In the portals, attuned minds were much weaker, or he would have been hesitant about communicating with Leochleánne while Lyra could see. But as he dodged another of the crimson shocks and stepped forth, he realized that Leochleánne was silent, a rare phenomenon in this rare bird and even rarer daemon.

"I don't know, Leochleánne."

"Don't doubt it."

"Well, she'll be happy, at least."

That earned the owl another, longer, deeper scoff. He extremely doubted Lyra would ever be happy, the way the world kept piling things on her. But then, you were never happy your entire life. You had to treasure the few moments of happiness you got.

"You'd better concentrate on the portal."

"Oh, it's second nature for me to dodge these now."

"Not because of that. There are two behind you."

"How are they?"

"Easy," she replied, as her voice grew stronger. "But remember who they want."

"I won't let them through."

He turned around. Lyra and Will's dream-self were almost at the other end of the portal; meanwhile, the two warriors were coming closer to him. He saw them brandishing their sabers, menacingly waving the blades about as they came closer to him, and for a moment he concentrated – and a weight dropped into his hand; he looked at it, and saw that in his left hand lay the hilt of a seventeenth-century steel rapier, sharp and powerful.

"Lyra! Run!"

"Vincent, what–"

"Just get out of here! I'll follow you soon enough!"

He made a gesture meant to imply that they should _really _get out of here about now, then conjured his old dueling attire, the long black coat over brown and gray clothes and the gloves that ran far past his wrist, plus the knee-high boots he had become used to during his long travels. The entire getup would have looked ridiculous in the present had it not been in such sedate colors; Vincent, like Will, had learned how to blend in.

"Looks like the great Vincent James Cole doesn't have anyone now!"

"Ha! What do you say we take him on, see who dies first!"

"Recreants," Vincent said loudly. "I have always assumed the worst of respect for your kind, but not until now was I sure how much it was deserved."

"Brave words for an idiot like you."

"But you won't be talking much longer."

"That, gentlemen, remains to be seen."

They drew their sabers in full and charged. But Vincent James Cole was a good duelist. He had never been caught unready for a fight just yet. As he spun the saber about, he opened his other hand and gestured in one of their directions; the warrior flew a good seventy feet before hitting the floor of the portal again. The other had charged with his blade ready. Vincent had blocked the first blow, the second, and now took the offensive with a sweeping blow downwards that caused blood to spurt from the warrior's chest. He struck hard at Vincent in return, but a Cole was not allowed to let such a simple strike hit.

He had killed the other one by the time the second stood up.

As the second came for him, Vincent did something he had done very few times before – but every time, he became more practiced at it. He slowed down time. It was only possible in a portal he had created, because only there did he have control of the miniature plane of existence he had made, but here he had full power over the temporal velocity of the plane, and who it affected. Now, it would affect only this warrior.

As he charged by, at the speed of a slug, Vincent struck the mortal blow.

The warrior fell with a loud thud to the ground, and Vincent sped time up to its normal velocity once again. Within moments, the bodies of the warriors vanished, and Vincent allowed the steel rapier to dissolve into thin air. Leochleánne's voice came again.

"They're already in Will's world."

"Good."

"No, it isn't, Vincent. You have to see it."

"What do you mean?"

"See it first. Then you can analyze it."

"I'll follow your advice, Leochleánne."

"Vincent, this merits a further talk. We'll have to speak sometime before we get to the funeral, or we may never get the courage up to tell Lyra about it."

"Of course. A later one, Leochleánne."

He dodged another of the red shocks and walked purposefully towards the end of the portal, finding it open as he knew he would, and floating out onto Will's world, over the ravaged ruins that had once been named Oxford. Lyra was not very far away, though still incorporeal, of course; Will's dream-self would have returned to his body now that he was in his world once again. Vincent let the portal close and floated down onto a tall rooftop, one of the less damaged ones, to look about.

The city had been destroyed.

Rubble lay everywhere; hundreds of houses had been merely reduced to chunks of stone. Many others had only partly survived whatever attack had befallen them. Some bravely stood, but even they were giving up as disrepair caught up with them. Vincent wondered what could have reduced Oxford to this pile of . . . of ashes and rocks strewn about so haphazardly. Surely the war hadn't reached this world just yet? Surely . . .

"Vincent . . ."

"Yes, I know, Lyra."

He did not need to look beside him to know that Lyra's incorporeal being would be there, looking at him. By now he could even discern the fact that what he had termed a 'look' would actually be more of a 'stare.'

"What happened here?"

"Will couldn't tell me. He says that a bunch of men wearing black cloaks came in one day and started blasting fireballs left and right – "

"_Fireballs_?"

"Yes, that's what he said – "

"Lyra, this is far more dangerous than I imagined! If they have come here . . . my God, this world is far beyond saving now, unless Hieronymus has a way to stop them . . . there's certainly no saving _this _city anymore."

"Who are they, Vincent?"

"The Order of the Black Rose," he said after a pause, "an order that opposes the goal of the Watchers. On this world, the Watchers organized into the Brotherhood of the Winged Serpent, with Hieronymus as their Lord Magister, and kept away from the prying eyes of mankind. But if the Order of the Black Rose has also appeared here . . ."

"Are they Watchers, too?"

"They were, once," Vincent said. "They have refused all that Watcherkin can give them for instant power. You have noticed, I think, that Watchers work with the mind and soul and heart; these opponents of ours choose to use only the body. Strong, certainly very enduring, very tough . . . but in the long run, in the long term, bound to fail.

"For though the Order of the Black Rose always has its adherents, they are but mortal men, with the soul and mind of a normal one . . . they have sacrificed the power of the Watcherkin for a mere semblance of strength. Watchers are immortal, with their souls and minds far more developed than the average human being's, and will thus endure any weapon thrown at them. In the end, when all has been done, Lyra, the Watchers shall win and the Order shall be conquered. This is known to me as much as my name."

"Where else could they have struck?"

"Anywhere across the whole world. And I remind you, Lyra, this is what you and I will fight against. I ask you, before I continue teaching you: are you certain that you'll have the will to stand up against them? To take up arms and gird your armor and ready yourself for the first charge across the battlefield?"

"Yes."

"Didn't sound very willful to me."

"_Yes_," she said, and Vincent thought he caught a flash of the thirteen-year-old Lyra in her voice. "I will. Nothing that kills this many people should exist."

"Well spoken," a voice said behind them. "But now you die."

**Author's Notes:**

_Readers _– Again, thanks for reading this last chapter. I'm sorry to say that this story may have to slow down about around chapter sixteen (the one I'm almost finishing) because of so many things I have to do. I'll try to make do so that I can still post one chapter every three days.

_Katherine_ – My only reviewer left, apparently. Yes, I know some of the dialogue could be omitted, but dialogue isn't my area of expertise. In fact, if I could tell the story without it, I would, but the few times I've tried it I've failed.


	12. Council Hall

The man standing before them was tall, slim, tan-skinned and wore a thin black goatee. His dark brown eyes were nearly the same shade as the business suit he wore, an impeccably clean set of clothing, and about him there was a tight air of haughtiness, as if nothing in life could stand up to his standards. Lyra felt angry just looking at him.

"I can't say it's good to see you again, Bartholomew."

"The same for you, my dear Scotsman," the man called Bartholomew replied. "I would have rather thought your little pupil here would already be ready to cross her entire body into this world. Oh, but I forget . . . you Watchers do tend to hold your best tricks back until the end. A fatal flaw of yours, I should say, particularly now."

"She has nothing to do with this."

"On the contrary, Vincent. She has _everything _to do with this. Your fate and mine are inextricably linked to hers." Lyra noticed how smooth and silky the man's voice was; he had a voice like velvet . . . and then she wondered if she would have made that simile had she been in her body. Her freedom grew greater with each moment out of it.

"She has no part of our feud, Bartholomew."

"But she will, Vincent, and it is for that reason that I am here. I suppose the two warriors I sent to face you inside that portal are dead? Yes. I always expected such ability out of you, Vincent, such a _famous_ dueling family you were . . . but in the end, of course, it has been my life's pleasure to outdo you at every turn. It seems I do it again now."

"In your dreams. Even if you killed both of us – "

"Oh, I have _full _intention of letting your fellow Watchers fight me. They shall see that unlike the average member of the Order of the Black Rose, the Dark Knights defend themselves as well as any of their own fighters. Let all fifty of them come at me at once, and I shall beat them back. Or – forgive me – forty-nine . . . one of their number will have already been gone by the time the rest arrived . . ."

"Barking mad, aren't you?"

"Oh, I will have loyal fighters beside me, my own private guards, of course. You think a Dark Knight would leave himself unprotected, Vincent? I doubt even the puniest of your Magisters considers protecting himself. I daresay you put lesser prices on – "

All of a sudden, Bartholomew could not speak.

Then Lyra looked around and saw that they were no longer alone; Xaphania, in battle attire similar to the one she had sometimes seen St. Joan of Arc wearing, led four others into combat against the silky-voiced Bartholomew. They were all dressed in black and gray, like Vincent, but she could see nothing of their features. Before long, humans in similar colored clothing were lining up against them as well. Lyra looked to Vincent.

"It is time for us to go."

"Where?"

"We will return to your world."

"No, you won't," another voice said behind them. "Come with me."

A hand pulled each of them through another portal, and once they were inside, Vincent shook hands with a tall man, extremely pale to almost the point of being pasty white, deep brown eyes, and short, cropped brown hair. He was dressed in the same dark colors that Vincent always used, but where Vincent wore a simple shirt and trousers, this man had a trench coat, turtleneck sweater, and very fine trousers and shoes.

"Lyra Silvertongue, Aurelio Mendoza."

"An honor to meet you, Lyra."

"Er . . . same to you," she finally said.

"It would be extremely dangerous to let you back into that world, Vincent."

"And it's so much better to just abandon them to die."

"Well," Aurelio said and grimaced, "Xaphania is leading them. They should do better than they usually manage. Otherwise, I'll have to get my own revenge, I believe."

As Lyra looked at him when he said that, she noticed that a deep scar ran down the right side of his face and stood out as a pale line in his heavily lined, angry face.

"The narrowboat was attacked."

"_What_?"

"Do not worry," Aurelio said hastily. "Ma Costa and the rest are still alive and for the most part uninjured – we're working with the minor injuries right now. There has been no damage to the narrowboat, either, but we have put it on continuous guard. It is obvious that the Order of the Black Rose learned of the location and moved to attack.

"Now, since you cannot return there without risking both yours and Lyra's lives, you will now go directly to the Council, meet the First there, and discuss tactics. It is still probable that you will be able to attend Farder Coram's funeral, Lyra, do not despair, but you will not be able to use the narrowboat as your transportation. Ma Costa was quite emphatic about letting that happen once we made the dangers you faced clear to her."

Lyra noticed that his voice was a diametrical opposite to Bartholomew's; while she had thrilled to hear that voice of silk and velvet, the only feeling she could associate with Aurelio's deep, rumbling voice was that of recently tempered steel. The man spoke with a passionate grace that she immediately associated with her own father; she began to wonder if perhaps this wasn't her father's equivalent in Will's world.

"Blades out, d'you reckon, Aurelio?"

"Good idea."

They spun their hands, and a pair of steel rapiers appeared, their fingers already on the hilts. Lyra stared. The swords had appeared out of thin air and just dropped into their grip! Vincent now took up a position behind her, Aurelio in front, and they advanced slowly across the portal, silently, quietly, and quickly.

"D'you expect anyone?"

"No, actually. Bartholomew should be busy enough."

Yet Aurelio glanced around him as he said that. Lyra could tell they were exuding a false sense of security for her sake, but she began to appreciate it; for the first time in her life, she truly realized that she had not yet earned her part in this conflict. Instead, she contented herself with walking slowly between them. Nothing happened as they reached the end of the portal, neither did any more warriors of the Black Rose step into their paths when they came out of the portal. Instead, forty-three figures – she remembered the four that had gone, with Xaphania, to battle Bartholomew – in billowing black robes and gray cloaks had formed into a circle, with a space wide enough for three people to stand in left for them as they stepped out. Vincent and Aurelio formed on either side of her, screwed their faces up for a moment, and were dressed in the same clothing.

"We welcome you, fellow Watchers."

"If we may be welcome in Council Hall."

"As always, my friends," one man among them said, a man whose voice was as hard as Aurelio's, but with some glimmer of suavity underneath. "Have you news?"

"This is the Watcher I was asked to bring."

"And so you have accomplished your goal admirably, Vincent James Cole. You shall be honored for this, my friend, among Watchers all. Aurelio, I wish you to go help the Watchers right now embattled with Sir Bartholomew Gray's forces. They are winning at the moment, but they will soon lose the battle if they are not reinforced."

"Very well, my First."

Aurelio disappeared through the same portal that he had used to transport them; the Watchers, Vincent included, constricted automatically so that there wasn't a space left between them. Lyra understood the symbolism; there were no gaps between Watchers. The open spaces were always filled with the remaining ones. The circle always closed.

"Who have you for us, Vincent?"

"Her name is Lyra Silvertongue, or Lyra Belacqua by her birth-name."

"Excellent. I must speak to you two alone."

Lyra took her chance to look the man full in the face, but she nearly had to look down. The First – Hieronymus, was that his name? – was powerful, both his body and his visage. He was broad and obviously muscular; his hair, worn long so that it spilled over his shoulders on all sides, was a wolfish gray that made him look even more daunting; and his eyes were brown as oak wood, brown as the hair of a powerful horse. She could see, even before she saw the sheath of a blade at his waist, that this man was a warrior.

"Retire, Watchers. Those of you who may, reinforce the fighters against Gray."

"Understood," murmured forty-two voices, "my First."

They all disappeared from sight, one by one, and Lyra was left with Vincent and the First, who strode over to them. She immediately noticed his long, powerful stride and the way he moved. This man reminded her more of Lord Asriel than Aurelio had once . . . but she recognized why, for the first time in her life. She could see the power in Aurelio, but Hieronymus was different. He had both innate power – and the authority to use it.

"It is an honor to meet you, Lyra Silvertongue."

"Er," she started and heard Vincent in her thoughts, "likewise."

"Vincent, let her keep her own manner," said Hieronymus, but he was smiling. "It is not every day that we receive word of a Watcher as powerful as you, Lyra."

She remained silent.

What the hell, quite frankly, would she say to that? The only power she had had, until now, was the ability to match Vincent. But then, wasn't that a feat in itself? Hadn't it taken him more time than her to reach the same level?

"Vincent, I meant what I said."

"I know, my First."

"I suggest you two get some sleep. There are several rooms available here in the Hall. However, I am afraid that your . . . situation . . . precludes sleeping alone."

"What – oh." Lyra realized what the First meant. "Well – "

"No worries, my First. I'll stay awake."

"Are you certain, Vincent? Even your vaunted resistance to sleep will not hold out beyond a few days. Should I send another Watcher to stay awake after that time?"

"We'll see then," Vincent replied. "Oh, and my First . . ."

"Yes?"

"Is there a Watcher here who can help me teach her to dance?"

**Author's Thanks:**

_Readers_ – I realize that this isn't a very high-traffic place, so I'm glad that you're taking the time to read this story.

_Katherine_ – Well, the idea is that you keep on reading with the intent to find out what's wrong with that one. It's supposed to be confusing because it introduces a lot of new ideas, but they'll be gradually explained.


	13. Mirrors of Glass

"Oh, I'm sorry – thought you might have – "

"That's . . . quite all right."

She hadn't wanted her voice to be so frigid, but it seemed to come out cold in spite of all her efforts. She clutched the towel a bit loosely – so it wouldn't mold to her figure so easily – and gave Vincent her best demure smile, hoping he wouldn't take it the wrong way. But his eyes only widened, and he stepped away from her.

"I'm sorry, Lyra."

"Vincent, I had a towel on. You didn't see anything."

"True," he admitted, and smiled ruefully, "but I'm not supposed to intrude on a Watcher's space in Council Hall."

"I'm not one yet, right?"

Vincent rolled his eyes; she finished combing her hair and gestured for him to come in. He stepped behind her and looked at his own reflection; she followed suit and found that the Vincent in the glass was a much more haggard man than she'd met on the Costa narrowboat. There were dark circles around his eyes, lines around his cheeks, and he had somehow dulled – though she had never thought that could have happened.

"I'm sorry."

"Vincent, _it's all right._"

"No, it's not that, Lyra." He avoided her eyes when he said that. "Quite frankly, my apprentice, my life has been fraught with complications from the moment we met."

"Has it?"

"Aye, first I have to teach a person who's moving along at quadruple my rate, then it turns out I'm not the only one looking for you. You're quite popular, it seems."

"I like to make friends, Vincent, not enemies."

"Don't we all?" he whispered. "Lyra . . . I can't believe I'm telling you this. It goes against every rule of Watcher conduct, it completely demolishes my obedience to the Code to pieces – a stalwart thing, mind you – and it's nearly enough to – "

"What?"

"– no way I'd get back in – out _for life _– "

"Vincent, what is it?"

"– laughingstock of the whole Council – "

"Vincent, _what the hell is it_?"

She grabbed him hard and shook him, and after a long time he lifted his head and she saw that his eyes were filled with tears. Without hesitation, without caring about the fact that she wore only a towel, she brought him close to her and let him rest her head on his shoulder. She put her arms around him and kissed his cheek, whispered the few soft words she remembered were definitely made to comfort people in these times, and tried as she could to heal the raw wound she now felt burning in Vincent's insides.

"Vincent . . . there, there . . . what is it?"

"You remember how I told you the Watcher to come before you had been turned from our cause permanently? That you were definitely the fifty-first Watcher?"

"Yes."

"Well . . . Lyra . . . that irredeemable Watcher was Will."

She was surprised, but in no way astonished. Somehow it felt lessened, the impact of such a blow. Maybe it was her not seeing him for so many years . . . maybe it was the fact that for so many things, she needed only to turn to Vincent, rather than to him . . . but rather than the hammering of her heart which she expected, she felt only a fluttering of weakness in her and – of course, as always – Vincent helped her stay standing.

"That's not all." He sighed. "Will told Sir Bartholomew where to go."

"No!"

"I have no idea what they've done to him. Maybe they told him that I'd show up with someone meant to look like you in order to confuse him . . . God only knows, Lyra, my point is that he's been corrupted. I don't think he's at all the Will you knew."

"Seven years," she said. "People change, don't they?"

"I suppose. But I think I know what caused the change. If you noticed, his dream-self was scarred, Lyra. He went through a battle . . . and I'm sure I know where. Oxford must have been a battle site, Watchers against Knights of the Black Rose."

"Who do you think won?"

"I'll have to ask Hieronymus. The destruction doesn't say."

He looked down, but this time he remained standing, and when he looked up she saw the determined light in his eyes that had always accompanied him when he taught her a lesson. She looked back at the mirror; but the Vincent there looked even more tired and haggard, stooped, even old . . . hair graying . . . eyes completely dull . . .

"I know. I see it as well."

"What is it?"

"Those mirrors, Lyra, see the heart and soul. Your soul is still completely pure, or you would see yourself differently; but through all that I've seen, I've been corrupted as well. Not enough that I would desert the cause of the Watchers, mind you, but enough that there are times I doubt it." He laughed. "There are times I even doubt if I love you."

"Vincent . . ."

"I know, I shouldn't have said that."

"No, that wasn't it," she said and smiled. "There's someone at the door."

"Ah, thanks."

He turned and saw the man Lyra herself had seen a minute before him, dressed in the black and gray uniform of the Watchers. They spoke for some time before Vincent came back behind her, his head slightly lower and his eyes not meeting the mirror. Lyra noticed how another line was added onto his face . . . he had been corrupted further. It could not have been good news, if that had been its effect.

"What happened, Vincent?"

"Xaphania was killed fighting Sir Bartholomew Gray and his forces. But at least," he said hollowly, "her squadron killed him and his guards before he could do any further damage. And Xaphania's death also means one more thing . . . something I must do."

"What?"

"There is one thing that she wanted you to have once she had died. She knew of her death long before any of us had guessed it – she was prepared for it. But she confided in me that it would happen, and gave this to me for you."

As he spoke, he took something from his pocket, which he dropped into her hand. It was a large pendant, both it and the chain silver, and the pendant decorated with a large gold stone about the size of one of Vincent's knuckles. When she looked at it, the stone seemed to glow, as if it recognized her presence and wanted to be near her.

"What is it?"

"The stone? Topaz."

"No, I mean – I meant . . . what does it do?"

"Ah, now there's the point of having it. You once heard Xaphania say that no mortal could ever be an angel, aye? Well, this will bring you as close as any mortal could be to the feeling. That gold stone, Lyra, contains what is left of Xaphania's soul . . . since the rest of it was destroyed by Sir Bartholomew. She probably weakened her own soul by creating that stone, but no matter. The pendant is now yours."

He took it gently from her and put it about her neck.

In that motion, that gentle way of his of putting his arms around her neck to bring the pendant down, then the quick and easy grace with which he tied the chain, something passed through her which she couldn't describe. It was a spark of electric current that was much more powerful than anything Vincent had shown her just yet.

"It . . . I can become an angel with this?"

"Close enough. Part of Xaphania's soul will flow into you, and though it is likely that you will not have wings, or the facility angels have at traveling between worlds, you will have something far greater than that. You will have a consciousness that extends far beyond the confines of your own body, mind, heart and soul . . . and that is the true nature of being an angel, Lyra, not the golden flesh and not the white wings."

"It's a wonderful gift."

"Just remember," he said slowly. "Xaphania needn't have died. She chose to die to make this stone for you . . . which means, Lyra, that it's obvious you have some power within you that neither you, nor I, nor anyone else, can realize just yet. It's our function, at the moment, to do that. If the Order of the Black Rose finds out before we do, we've got little hope without Xaphania. As long as Hieronymus doesn't die on us – "

Lyra kissed him.

She didn't know why, or how she overcame the self-imposed limits that had kept her behavior clean and pure. All she knew was that suddenly, her arms were around him, and her lips were pressed tightly to his, and he was looking at her with his eyes widening to nearly twice their normal size, and everything around them both – the haggard soul in the mirror, the pendant around her neck, the thought of Will as an irredeemable Watcher – melted as long as she kept herself so close to his face and to the warmth of his eyes.

"Lyra – "

"No, don't say anything," she said. "Hush, Vincent, or you'll ruin it."

"But – "

"I suppose you're going to tell me that it goes against the code of the Watchers? Well, Vincent, you broke one rule of yours today. Why not break two, make it even?"

"Because – "

"Vincent, just shut up and kiss me."

She thought he might have taken offense at it, the way his eyes widened further, but the next moment, it was he who passionately kissed her. She let herself stand there, embracing him and in turn in his embrace, as the touch of his lips to hers flooded her body with the warmth of a thousand good fireplaces.

**Author's Note:**

_Readers_ - Sorry for taking so long to update the story. I did do my best to get on it early, but my school hasn't been too kind with work, so I've been completely swamped. I'll try to get back on track (next update will be tomorrow night, as it should have been).

_Booky _- I already explained this to Athena privately, but I did include a sentence where I explained that Will disappeared into his body, as should have happened when returned to his world. He'll be back later.

_AScholarlyAthena _- I already replied to your review privately, but let me say that this was an intensely thoughtful review, and I am grateful for it.

_TMack _- Glad to know I have British readers, as well.


	14. Reprimands

"You stomped on your oaths, Vincent."

"I – "

"That's all right," Hieronymus said. "It happens, my friend."

Hieronymus handed him a cup of hot tea; Vincent drank a bit of it and felt a bit reinvigorated. Though he had not gone beyond kissing, it had been profoundly draining; not so much the action as the consequences behind it. Just thinking of what happened to a Watcher who failed to keep his oaths made him sick, especially when he . . . thought of her and wished he could hold her and kiss her once again . . .

"You are lovesick, Vincent."

"Very much so, my First."

"Well, she is certainly close to you, as your only pupil at the moment, and even I cannot deny that she is beautiful. You are simply possessed of incredible luck, that she has fallen in love with you and you only gave in, or I would have to expel you."

"My First – "

"I am joking, Vincent. That oath was only taken to delay what was inevitably in the cards, if you'll forgive the expression. At some point, you would have ended in her arms, or she in yours. It was only a matter of waiting until that moment."

"If you say so."

Hieronymus smiled over his own cup of tea. It was odd to see the First, a warrior both at war and at peace, doing something as normal as hoisting a cup of tea to his lips. If anything, Vincent would have expected the man to be drinking hard, strong ale – but the First had so far broken all of their expectations since he had begun leading them.

"You understand the problems of our situation, am I correct?"

"Aye. Xaphania dead is only trouble."

Hieronymus nodded slowly and sipped his tea. Vincent tried hard not to think of Lyra; he had the uncomfortable feeling that the First could tell whenever he did, because it must cause his emotions to surge so far above his normal levels . . . and because it was beginning to conquer his mind entirely when the thought of her invaded the rest.

"Such happens, when one is lovesick."

"Yes, my First."

"Vincent, you may treat me by my name," he said. "After all, we share one. Now, I must have your assurance that nothing would happen to Lyra under your care?"

"Definitely not."

"You have done well so far, on that count, in any case."

"All due respect, Hieronymus, did you expect any less from him?"

Vincent whirled. Leochleánne, unruffled, calm, as always, sat on the back of his armchair with her talons pressed tightly on the cloth. When he turned back to the First, she nipped his ear affectionately and rubbed her feathers against his hair, the same way Hieronymus scratched the back of his beautiful white wolf, Niamh.

"No, Leochleánne, I did not."

"Pantalaimon arrived as well, then, I take it?"

"I daresay he and Lyra are telling each other about their respective, ah, 'days.' It has been difficult for both of them to be so far away for so long, I believe, though it may not have been fairly obvious to either of them, or to others."

"Aye, a daemon's distance can be unforgiving."

"As we both well know, Vincent."

"If I may ask, Hieronymus, what are your plans?"

"Oh, they are quite simple," he replied, still smiling. "I intend for you and Lyra to leave our company as soon as possible. It is no longer safe to be in Council Hall, not if the Order of the Black Rose has chosen to be more aggressive, and I would rather many of us die than her. Normally I wouldn't make the exception, but – "

"Lyra is exceptional. Aye, I quite understand the dilemma."

"Good." Hieronymus sipped his tea again. "I believe she met Aurelio Mendoza already, correct? Very good. You will leave with him; the time has come that Lyra may need more than one man. I know how good you are with your blade, Vincent, but even you will not hold under a major attack, not without dying."

"I would gladly die to save her."

"But she would lose her only guardian, Vincent, and that could be lethal for her and for everything involved in this cause. Begin teaching her some skill with the sword, or with whatever weapon you can train her, so that she may defend herself. Hard times will soon come down upon us all, Vincent, and I would detest her falling into the hands of the Order of the Black Rose. You will assure me that such will not happen, yes?"

"Not while she is my charge, Hieronymus."

"Well, I trust you with that much. Enough on the subject. Now . . . once you are gone from our company, you will return to her world, should you need to hide there for more than the ten years that the average being can stand in another world. What do you plan to do there? You have unique knowledge of that world, knowledge even I do not."

"That is quite a question, Hieronymus. I am not entirely sure what I would do if I were to return at the moment; it is doubtful that she would arrive on the narrowboat once again. I suppose I would take her to Sveden for the roping, and then I would attempt to cut off all pursuit by heading into Norroway. I could also try a detour into Lapland, if it would help keep them off; I have a guide who has traveled the north extensively."

"Yes, I've heard of this marvelous explorer before. And otherwise?"

"Muscovy may be in order. Alexander IV owes me a favor, and it would be easy to hide in that city. Or, I could try hiding her in the Near East; I hear the Damascenes are very welcoming of foreigners these days, at least in her world."

"Too true." Hieronymus put his cup down. "That is it?"

"Well, Hieronymus, you can't expect me to formulate a total contingency plan; I have only made provisions for the most common tactics I am likely to encounter."

"But you are protecting Lyra," he said. "And Lyra, as you said yourself, is quite an exceptional Watcher. Which means they will use exceptional tactics to get to her."

Vincent mulled this over.

He could hide in plain sight; take her to Oxford and protect her. He could mask himself as a teacher in St. Sophia's, from what he understood of the subjects taught there, and no Knight of the Black Rose would look for her there . . .

"An excellent plan."

"I'm sorry, Hieronymus?"

"Oxford. Though I think the Order_ would_ look for her there, you forget that we have recently acquired many candidates to be Watchers in Lyra's world. I could deploy an unit of the British ones to keep watch over the city while you hid her there."

"That would be asking far too much. If they were seen?"

"Then you can unite and eliminate the Black Rose's presence."

"And risk drawing attention to Lyra? It would be lethal."

"No," Hieronymus said, smiling more widely. "Because the moment they find out about her being in Oxford, their Master will send them after her there, and you will be long gone. In Lyra's world, they won't dare risk a battle over a city; they'd be caught and killed by what remains of the Magisterium before they got out of the Isles."

"It still seems too chancy to me, Hieronymus."

"Well, Vincent, we are approaching war," he said. "It is time that we took risks. If we did not, we would never grow, whether as pertains to our matter or as pertains to our office . . . Nevertheless. You must leave within the next three days. If you wish anyone more than Aurelio to accompany you, you must tell them before that time."

"Understood, my First."

"Very well, Vincent. You are dismissed."

Hieronymus shook his hand as he stood up and left, Leochleánne flying up to his shoulder as he opened the door. He closed the door behind him and felt utterly confused, yet imbued with a sense of purpose he had rarely possessed before. As his thoughts flew to Lyra once again, wondered what she might be doing, he found himself heading in the direction of the room they now shared, even though he knew he shouldn't share the same space with her so soon after . . . what had passed between them. But he took the steps, and when he found himself outside their room, he sat down against the door and let the owl step down his arm to his hand, where she locked her talons around his hand.

"You kissed her."

"Aye, I did," he said, "and I don't think I've enjoyed anything more."

"And did you ever stop to think at how much risk that puts the mission?"

"Excuse me? _She _kissed me."

"Vincent, stop being a childish idiot for once and start listening to what I tell you. If you allow her to fall in love with you, you ruin any chance of saving your world. Are you fully aware of that?"

"Extremely."

Leochleánne's golden eyes looked up at him, daring him to say something defiant or brave to defend his position. But as he was wont to do in such situations, he merely shrugged, smiled at her weakly, and spoke exactly what he thought for once.

"I'm not sure if I want to anymore, Leochleánne."

"The First was right. You really _are _lovesick."

"Very much so," Vincent replied, smiling at her. "And if that's what it takes to be happy . . . if impaired judgment is the price I pay for this joy, then I'll gladly pay it, until I can no longer afford the cost. We'll see who's right with time, Leochleánne."

"If your world survives that long."

"It will," he whispered. "It always has."

**Thanks to:**

_Readers _- I noticed few hits, but the fact that I had _any _at all during so long a hiatus pleases me. I don't mean to say that in a "You please God" way, it's a purely human sentiment; I know I've been away for a long time and I feel good to be coming back to this story - I hope I'll be able to finish it this time around.

_Athena (since your name is too long to type fast) _- Here's your requested update. I'm sorry it took me over a month to update, but here it is.

_RedBerry _- Hmm, thank you.

_Evan _- Thanks for the praise. Individually, I am writing a novel (or attempting to); I'm Puerto Rican, and I can speak no other languages than Spanish and English, so I try to speak them well; the plot was based after I'd finished reading the books for possibly the fourth time, as I wanted to make sure I didn't mess too much with Pullman's story; and I always look for comments on improvements I could make. No story will ever be perfect.


	15. Visit to Scotland

"Lyra, we're–"

"Back where he brought us, I know."

She smiled as she smelled the air of the hills of Scotland that so reminded her of Vincent – of his voice, of his touch, of his kiss . . . she had been unable to stop thinking of him since their lips had parted for that second time, just as she knew he had never been able to stop thinking about _her._ Though being asleep kept her from knowing a location for him, she knew how he felt – their kiss had forged an even more intimate connection.

"It's beautiful."

"It really is, Pan," she said, sitting down. "I love this place."

"Because it reminds you of him."

"Yeah, that too, but it's beautiful all on its own. I've never seen grass this green, or trees that thick and tall. Look at them, Pan, they're so lovely . . . I should come here before, in my dreams, shouldn't I? Look how pretty everything is . . ."

"I like the sky the most."

"I know, Pan."

She felt it too; she knew exactly why he liked the sky so much, because it was the same perfect fusion of goldenrod yellow and vermillion red that his fur had in abundance, and the clouds were sinuous white curves cutting across the monotony of the sunlit sky with a polite grace that humans had never mastered . . . it was all too beautiful for words.

"What d'you think he's thinking right now?"

"He's thinking about me," Lyra replied confidently. "I know he is. Pan, he loved me before I even thought about being in love with him . . . I think he knew me before he brought me into his dreams. He fell in love with me because he knew what I was thinking and where I was and all of those things, but he never saw me, and that's when he really did fall in love with me. And I . . . and I . . ." She tried, but the words didn't come.

"When did you fall in love with him?"

"That's the thing, Pan, _I don't know_. I just did – I mean, one moment he's all sad, he's telling me about all the trouble they're going to have, and suddenly I felt that I had to do something, and a hug wasn't going to be enough. Then I realized why I'd thought of kissing him . . . Pan, I think I loved him all along and I only just realized it then."

"No, you didn't. I would have known."

"Maybe."

Pantalaimon curled over her shoulder and rubbed his marten whiskers against her ear affectionately; she smiled, hugged her knees, and kept looking out over the beauty of the hills of Scotland. Somehow, she could see Vincent in every line; the brown of those trees was the brown of his eyes, the fertile topsoil under her was the brown of his hair, the red-and-golden sky the currents of emotion running under his façade of forced calm, the beautiful sun the hope she always felt bloom in his chest when he was near her . . .

"He's really got you confused, Lyra."

"I know . . ."

She felt the jumble in her thoughts, and knew that every moment she had without seeing him was a pinprick in her heart. She knew how the girls at St. Sophia's had ruined their relationships by being too forward, too quick to respond, too eager to continue, but somehow – in some corner of her mind – was firmly lodged the idea that Vincent would understand. He knew her better than she knew herself, didn't he? He would forgive her for being a bit more childish than usual . . . or so she hoped . . .

"He probably would, if he loves you."

"Yes, I know that." She breathed in the air again. "It seems so real to sit here and breathe this air in, Pan, don't you see? This is just a dream. Imagine how beautiful it must be to really be here! Maybe we can ask Vincent to pass by here . . ."

"Wouldn't it remind him of his world, though?"

"True enough," she said, "but it can't hurt to ask, Pan."

The pine marten daemon nodded his little head a few times. Lyra tried hard not to go to sleep here again, but it took some effort. The place was so calm, so beautiful, and so . . . enchanting . . . that she found it unbelievable that someone else had not come here to sleep. Then she realized that she did see a figure, some distance away.

"Lyra, let's go – I don't like the look of him – "

"Pan," she replied desperately, "I can't leave."

She tried the mental trick to leave the Neutral Ground behind and found she could not. She tried again, all the while the figure drawing nearer, and she couldn't do it! She kicked out towards the ground and rolled down a few feet, then realized that she was forcing herself to do it. This time, she calmed herself – the figure drew nearer, but she did not care anymore. She laced her fingers together, let her body go, and found herself in her room, the sheets as drenched as they had been when she had first met Vincent.

"Pan?"

"I'm here."

"So am I," Vincent's deep voice said. "What happened, Lyra?"

"I went to the hills of Scotland in my sleep – and I was just sitting there, talking to Pan, and I saw a figure coming nearer. Pan told me he didn't like the look of the man, so I tried to do that whole trick you do to put your mind back in your body, right? I tried, and I couldn't do it, until I finally calmed down and just let myself go . . ."

"And I assume your close encounter is the cause for the sweat?"

"Yes."

"Good," he said and smiled at her, as usual. "I hoped it'd been only that."

Lyra tried hard not to give in to that smile, but what she had just passed through weakened her resolve. She let herself fall into Vincent's waiting arms; she put her head on his shoulder and her arms around his neck, and he placed his around her torso, so that she had to shift his weight onto his lap in order to sit comfortably.

"It was so scary . . ."

"I know, Lyra, I know. But no one can hurt you now."

"Well, they can–"

"Leochleánne!"

"–but they'd have to get through us," the owl finished.

Feeling only a bit more reassured, Lyra let him stroke her hair and whisper the same words she had put into his ear but a few hours ago, except that in his voice, they had some divine power she could not muster into her own tone; she understood what it was. Being conscious of her pain so acutely, not only because he shared a mind with her, but because he loved her so badly, he felt that pain, and his words were as much an effort to calm his own pain as hers, to heal the wound that two souls had suffered.

"We'll have to leave soon, Lyra."

"But I thought you said the Council was long?"

"Ah, it is, but Hieronymus fears Council Hall may come under attack. Now don't fret, if it happens, we are prepared for it – but it would be a great big mess if you were to be found. I'll be taking you to Sveden for the roping, and then I'll return you to Oxford."

"You have a boat?"

"Not currently, but I daresay the Watchers can glean one for me. We have friends in many places, both high and low, Lyra. They are extremely useful. And in any case, I would only need to cross worlds to take you to Oxford, what with displacement."

"Well . . ." She bit her lip; what was she going to say? "Vincent . . ."

"I know. It was a mistake, Lyra."

"No, it wasn't," she replied fiercely. "We both know it wasn't. Otherwise, I'd still be lying in that bed, and you'd be telling me all this from three feet away. You wanted it as much as I did – Vincent, you wanted it _more _than I did."

"That much I won't deny."

"Then what's the problem?"

"The problem is, Lyra," he said, looking at her with watery eyes, "that I still want you. I still want to feel your lips against mine, your touch on my face . . . and that cannot be. Not if you're meant to save us from the Authority's constricting grasp. I cannot allow this to continue. If we cannot be together, Lyra . . . I shall have to arrange without you."

"Vincent! How dare you!"

"What?"

"D'you think I'd just take lessons from anyone else? _No_! Vincent, you're being just as bad as the Authority is! You're fighting yourself! You're falling into the trap, you idiot!" She saw his eyes, terrified of the fury in hers, but she wasn't satisfied yet. "I'm not letting you do this to yourself. You're _not _going to do exactly what they want. Vincent, are you even listening to me? Listen to me! Damn it, look at me, Vincent!"

"Lyra – "

"Vincent . . . just do what you feel you have to do."

"Very well."

The next moment, he took her face in his hands and cradled it so carefully in his chiseled fingers; then, as he whispered his soft words in her ear, he kissed her cheek. She turned her face towards him, and he kissed her, again and again, as if he'd never kissed in his life. She gave in to his passion, feeling the storm of emotion ravage her guard, and sat in his embrace as he, unable to bare his soul in words, did so with his touch.

* * *

**Thanks to:**

_Evan/E.C. Florek_ - Thanks for pushing me with the reviews, I needed the help. Looks like I finally got the chapter back from the depths of Hell, in any case, and hopefully this means chapter 16 and then 17 can go up, and . . . well . . . I haven't started on the 18th one yet. We'll see. As for your questions: Watchers have minor telepathic bonds, Will should reappear (he's supposed to play a major role in the second part of this saga), the Black Rose is sure to reappear, I didn't place Ma Costa or any other Costa character on the narrowboat simply to focus on the main two, and thanks for adding it to your favorites.

_TheNightIsFading - _Thanks for your praise.

_KaiserMonkey_- Thanks again. I've been trying to write this story several times over for a long time.

_persiangoddess _- Indeed, angels are weaker than mortals, but Watchers aren't truly angelic or truly mortal - they're a mix of the superior physical nature of the mortal being, which has learned the mental powers of the angels. Though I'm loath to relate it to something else, after I researched _Star Wars_ I discovered several huge similarities between the Watchers and the Jedi Order, and realized that Xaphania and Hieronymus are probably the closest thing I've got to Jedi Masters. As for your question on Will, that should be revealed piecemeal - if not in this part of the story, in the next, where a few new experienced and newbie Watchers show up and the whole backstory (what happened to Will during "Reign of Darkness") is explained. Lastly, Hieronymus is not a Cole; his full name is Hieronymus Johannes Friedrich _Vincent _von Roehm.

And finally, lest I forget.

_Readers_ - I'm glad I can still count reads in this stuff. Only sixty hits, but considering how long it's been since I updated, I'm not at all surprised.


	16. Attack!

"Lyra, may I come in?"

"Who is it?"

"Aurelio Mendoza," the voice replied. "You know, from the – "

"Yes, yes, come in."

It was midday and Vincent had left after waking her up; she had opened her eyes to find she had fallen asleep on his knees, apologized, and ordered herself up a bit. Then he had decided to leave to meet with the First once again, and she had been talking to Pan since then, until the knock on the door and the iron voice interrupted her.

"I'm not cutting into anything, am I?"

"No, no, come in, please."

She had no idea how you were supposed to behave, but something made it easier; like Vincent, this man had a daemon, and like Vincent, he hadn't had it in the portal. This daemon, however, was not small; no, Aurelio Mendoza's daemon was a huge tigress – though Lyra did not know how she ascertained it was female – snow white, with the cat eyes particularly golden. She understood at once; Aurelio's best tactic was intimidation, rather than subtlety, and his daemon showed it. He sat down on the edge of the bed, his foot resting on the opposite knee – which only reminded her more of her father.

"I'd have thought by now Vincent wouldn't want to leave you alone."

"Oh, he usually doesn't."

"I know," he replied, "which is why I'm here. Lyra, when Vincent takes you out of here, I will be going with you. I'm also going to be teaching you how to fight."

"Fight?"

"I'm not the best, but I have some skill with the sword."

"You're going to teach me to use a sword."

"Ah, well, a rapier, in any case. I imagine you've seen fencing?"

"Yes."

"Well, somewhat like that, except there's not so much emphasis on style. More on killing your opponent, indeed, than on choosing how to kill him."

"A cheery kind of thing," she said sarcastically.

"Some would find it that."

She looked at him, but he wasn't laughing; instead, his face showed no sign that he had ever expressed anything but absolute seriousness. She tried not to show it, but she cowered under the powerful gaze of this man who, if anything, was even more so. He was a man to be feared, by whom to be intimidated; Lyra sensed that all about this man was hard stone and tempered steel, and that there was little, if any, warmth in him.

"That is correct, Lyra. I am a warrior."

"W – Is your mind – "

"No, rest easy," he said, even his laugh sounding like a roar. "I know it from your expression. Do not feel intimidated, or afraid, Lyra. Even tigers know when to be soft to others; there is a saying that the more ferocious the beast, the softer it is prone to be."

"Really?"

"I'm a Spaniard, Lyra," he said. "Or, _the _Spaniard, as they call me here. My blood is full of honor, full of the past and full of tradition, more than it has ever been of the now and the present." His eyes blazed with a fierce brown fire as he spoke. "In my blood runs the ancient inheritance of all Spaniards – warriors and explorers, living by their sword and wit, and in the case of Hernán Cortés and Francisco Pizarro, utter sons of bitches."

"Who?"

"I'm sorry. I forgot your world has a different timeline from mine."

"Are you from the same world as Vincent?"

"No, no. I am from Will's world, Lyra, and if I may be permitted a cancellation of my modesty for the purposes of truth, I know more of its ways and lands than your Will, and will know more than he will assemble in a lifetime. I was a Watcher by birth, rather than by profession, and Hieronymus himself was my teacher."

"When were you born?"

"As far as I remember, I was born on August 1st, 1801."

"18 – but that's two hundred years ago!"

"Indeed. Watchers like I am live longer than the average human – the developed mind tends to last longer, and the inquiring one will almost always have more will to live. When you learn that your will _can_, literally, do anything you wish, your will to live will become a longer lifespan. So much so that my generation of Watchers was immortal."

"Immortal . . ."

"It's not the giggle it's made out to be, I promise you that much." Aurelio smiled, but it was a smile full of bitterness – as if he could produce no other. "Immortality is the most overrated of gifts. Who would want to live for two hundred years? It takes a lifetime to learn everything that's worth learning. Why make that time longer?"

Somehow, Lyra thought she was seeing another side of him.

She'd seen him as a warrior . . . hard, iron, tempered, violent. Now he was seeing him as a philosopher. He was talking to her, she sensed, in an attempt to ease his own mind, to reassure himself, that he wasn't the only one thinking along those lines.

"Mister Mendoza . . . can I ask you something?"

"If you call me Aurelio, you can," he replied. "I've never been called 'Mister Mendoza' in my life and I don't plan to start accepting it now."

"Aurelio . . . have you ever fallen in love?"

"Wondering if it's right to be with another Watcher, are we?" She reddened, but he only laughed again, his growl-like chuckle. "It wouldn't be the first time to happen. The mind seeks out its own kind," he explained. "But to answer your question . . . yes, I have been in love, and to answer a question I sense you will ask me in the future, yes, I have consummated love. And finally, yes, my love was a Watcher."

"Tell me about her."

Aurelio laughed and patted his tiger's back; the tiger leaped onto the sheets, but miraculously, the bed held. In that motion, however, Lyra had grasped the necklace with the topaz in it as if for protection, and when she had locked eyes with the tiger she had heard her name as if Aurelio himself had said it. The tiger was named Ginebra.

"Her name was Beatrice," he said slowly. "She was a beautiful woman, Lyra, a red-haired Englishwoman. Though she had had more time in the Brotherhood than I did, I was older than her, and though we haven't seen each other in years, I still remember her quite vividly." He smiled. "I'd be damned if I'd forgotten her so easily."

"How much–"

"Oh, don't make that mistake, will you? Youths always try to quantify love; what is it with you? Why can't you just leave it as an absolute quantity?" Again the growl-like chuckle. "You either love someone, Lyra, or you don't. How the hell do you translate a human _emotion_ – unquantifiable by definition – into an amount?"

"I – I didn't mean – "

"I know you didn't," Aurelio said, "but that doesn't keep me from being angry at you for it. I'll tell you something, Lyra; if I have to teach you, there will be no dances – except for those done at the point of a blade – and little idle chatter. I am not principally a philosopher, as Vincent is; I am a warrior."

"Then I need you with me."

Lyra and Aurelio both looked to the door of her bedchamber, which was ajar. He – Vincent – was inside the doorframe, his sword again in his hand, his robes bloody.

"Vincent! What's – "

"Aurelio," he said calmly, "get out of here. The First needs your aid in the defense of Council Hall. Lyra, get dressed – or if you are already, get out of bed. We must escape immediately." Lyra discerned a scream behind him.

"I'm leaving."

Aurelio grinned at her – but it was a toothy, lopsided grin – as Ginebra left behind him, pawing the ground carefully. Lyra slowly drew herself out of bed; but before she had gotten a step away, Vincent almost brusquely grasped her arm and drew her out of the room, Pantalaimon and Leochleánne flying and sprinting after them. She choked back her scream as she saw the dead around them.

"Damn it."

"Vincent – I saw these – "

"I _knew _them," he said. "They – the bastards will pay."

With that said, he picked her up in his arms and rushed away, sprinting through hall after hall, charging through open doors, ducking under lower ceilings, and finally they were in the same room Lyra had seen when they had appeared at Council Hall. Here was Aurelio, the First, three other Watchers in their robes, all bloodied and cut. The First, in fact, had taken a deep slash across his face; another Watcher was helping him.

"Vincent. Glad you could join us."

"When shall we leave?"

"Right now," Hieronymus replied. "Go."

Vincent nodded, his face suddenly hard-edged, and motioned to Aurelio. The Spaniard looked up, put his hand in the air, and the waves began to ripple again, waves of air, and they ripped open; the great violet and white circle that was the entrance of the portal appeared. Vincent gestured to her; she stepped through (avoiding one shock) and, dodging a second bolt of lightning, waited for him to step through.

"Aurelio?"

"I'm not going," he said. "They need me here."

"Aurelio – "

"_No_, Hieronymus. I'm not leaving."

"I command you, Aurelio."

"Command me as you wish. I shall not leave."

Vincent looked at Lyra; a moment later, the gate began to close. Before the world had completely been cut off from them, Lyra and Vincent were already sprinting away.

**Thanks to:**

_bookworm-2111 -_ It happens again and again, thanks to bad computers, but I keep losing these files and having to find them somewhere else. I'm glad I was finally able to update, what with that and school coming on so heavily.

_E.C. Florek_ - Yes, I know it's a long wait. I hate to do this to you people as well - don't think I derive any sort of pleasure from angering all of you. I do my best to turn in chapters on time, but this story has turned out to be so complex that sometimes I just get stuck with one elbow on the table.

_persiangoddess _- Well, by now Watchers refers as much to Lyra and Vincent as to Xaphania, since the organization isn't entirely made up of Angels (in fact, it's got a single angelic Councilor). Vincent, by now, is not quite immortal yet but he will live many hundreds of years; Lyra, simply with the lessons she has taken, might live one hundred and ten or twenty. What is sure is that before long, both their aging processes will have stopped.

_lindsey_ - Thank you for reviewing.

_C2s_ - Whoever included me in "The Best HDM Fiction." I'm seriously honored.

_Readers _-Obviously, without you there's no point in continuing the story. Thank you for taking time out of your schedules, some of which, if not most or all, are as busy as mine, and giving my story a glance.


	17. Damascus

Lyra saw the towers before anything else, and immediately fell in love with the city; they were so beautiful, curving upwards softly, in at once a proud defiance to and a soft acknowledgment of European architecture, trying to reach for the sky in much the same way as the towers of her old – oh, so well-known – Oxford. Then she looked up at Vincent, and saw that his expression was the same as the one probably on her face.

"Vincent, where is this?"

"Damascus," he answered dreamily. "I haven't been here in _so_ long . . ."

"You've _been _here?"

"A few times. But I never quite saw it this way." He smiled down at her. "It's not as beautiful in my world. Or Will's. That I can guarantee you."

"What happened?"

"War," he answered simply. "War happened, and as always, war takes away. War weakens, Lyra. That's why we philosophers tend to abhor it. It makes it impossible to develop intellectually, humanely – all things that matter get put on hold during war."

She suddenly felt saddened by the words, as if that beautiful Damascus in the distance had just grayed, turned to ruins and smoke; but no, the blues and whites of that faraway city were still intact to her eyes. No amount of tragic words would ruin that beauty for her, no matter how Vincent felt about it.

"I'm glad you feel that way."

"Didn't you say you weren't going to monitor my thoughts?"

"I lied," he answered. "So sue me."

She smiled and locked arms with him, and realized that there was a large strain on her imagination at the moment; they were in the desert, yet she felt no heat! How was this at all possible . . . unless . . . Vincent's rueful smile was telling her that this was indeed another power that Watchers enjoyed, as he put his arms around her and grinned.

"Quite an useful one, too."

"But then you can't feel _any _heat or cold?"

"Oh, I wouldn't say that, Lyra. It's like the witches; we feel it, of course, but we do not mind it. We do not sweat, or grow icicles on our noses" – Lyra grinned – "because the mind doesn't tell the body to do it. It doesn't need to; we simply would rather feel the magic woven into every sand of grain in this desert on our flesh and the wind tousling our hair than cover our hair with turbans and wear the loose clothing that makes it damned hard to move for us descendants of the Nordic people."

"I'm not entirely sure you're making sense."

"That's why I'm a philosopher," he replied. "I can get away with it."

Lyra laughed; together they walked towards the minarets and the blue-white towers and the beautiful marble walls she could see from afar. Of course, Lyra didn't know then what she would know later; that in her world, the Saracen Empire's remaining vestige of power was that magnificent city, or that the blue-white towers had been there since King Richard II of England, or that Pope John Calvin's armies had carved that giant breach in one of the marble walls, repaired with plaster and in the process of being fixed.

"Yes, I decried that damage as well."

"Vincent!"

"I'm sorry," he admitted. "I couldn't resist."

She pushed him away, but he only smiled; they were now very close to the city gates, and she could already see the two white-clad guards carrying long spears; though neither they nor the weapons would have been fearsome in and of themselves, the way they wielded them made it obvious how well they would use in on any intruder.

Yet Vincent – and then she – stepped through without interference.

As Vincent continued onto a wide street, Lyra caught up to him, tapped him on the shoulder, and put the obvious question to him: How had they done that?

"Oh, if you think that's another Watcher power, you're out of luck. Damascene Guardsmen know me. Like I said, I've been here a few times before."

"They remember you?"

"They remember anyone who walks through those doors, Lyra. That's the beauty of this city. Offend it once, and you will never enter it again. Offend it twice, and you will never leave it save snugly inside a coffin."

"Why are we here?"

"For two reasons," he replied. "First, because the Damascene are quite forgiving when it comes to visitors and citizenship; most Saracen citizens are not born in Damascus or even near it. And second, because there is a Watcher who has made this her place of residence, and we must tell her what has happened. I am afraid she will be needed if we are to mount any meaningful resistance to the Black Rose – given that display in Council Hall, I'm surprised we mounted _any _resistance, meaningful or not."

"Who's the Watcher?"

"Oh, I'm sure somebody down the line will have told you. Perhaps myself, or Xaphania, or Aurelio, or Hieronymus, but somebody has probably told you, Lyra. You'll see once you've met; she, like you, is good at reading people. I have no doubt that you two will get along nicely . . . which is important, as we may require her company."

"Vincent, you didn't answer my question."

"I'm not planning to do it. That would ruin the suspense."

"Suspense? Our lives are in danger and you want _suspense_?"

"Oh, Lyra, what would life be without those little feelings?" He grinned at her. "Suspense is one of those things that appeals to all of us, because it's one of our base emotions: _fear_ is one of the few excellent motivators of humanity.

"Besides, you don't need to know that yet."

"And if I want to know?"

"You can use the stone around your neck," he replied. "It would immediately tell you. But even your extended consciousness won't tell you the reason why we're going there, or what she could tell us. That's why I'm not telling you. It's not the same to _know_, Lyra, as to _understand_. That's what I've been trying to teach you for the past few weeks."

"I think I know – "

"No, you don't," he said, not unkindly, "and you don't understand, either. You're experienced, and prudent, and clever, but this is a truth that hasn't gotten through your skull just yet." He smiled, and patted her cheek. "You will. Eventually."

"Eventually? I have to _wait_ for this?"

"All things worth knowing – or understanding – are worth waiting to know or understand. In one lifetime you can know and understand Ancient Egyptian; in two, you'll learn military science; in three, astronomy; in four, advanced mathematics. But we only have one lifetime – and that's why it's our souls that carry on for us, and learn what we didn't, and keep that existence alive." His smile grew wider. "At least, that's the way I put it. I don't know if you'd share that opinion."

"And philosophy?"

"That never leaves you, no matter how many lifetimes you live; philosophy is something you learn _as _you live. It's not something you go to the Berlin Royal Academy or the Metaphysical Institute in Cardiff to learn; it's something that _you _learn on your own, during your days on this world. It's understanding the life of everyone around you, understanding what goes on in this world that's so beautiful."

"How poetic of you."

"That's why I write," he said, still smiling. "Maybe someday I'll show you the novel I've been writing for so many years . . ."

"Maybe."

"Maybe," he said, his tone final.

He smiled and kept his arm around her as they walked through the narrow streets, watching the Damascene in their loose, multicolored clothing, walking about with a sense of true purpose. None of them seemed to be aimless to Lyra; they all walked as if they had a goal in mind, a very specific one, and knew what they would do there.

"I can understand why you like the city."

"You notice it too?"

"I notice a lot of things I never did, Vincent," she said, returning his sly smile, "and there's something you deserve thanks for."

"No thanks requested, none needed."

"But – "

"No."

"Vincent – "

"No." He shook his head softly, then smiled as she bit her lip. "A philosopher, Lyra, is only telling others what they should already know . . . in other words, something you didn't quite realize, but something that's been in the back of your mind all along."

"Whatever you say."

Vincent only grinned, that mysterious smile that made him so enchanting to talk to and yet so annoyingly inscrutable. Lyra kept her arm locked with his as they passed a tall, muscular, brightly-dressed Damascene man, went into an alley, and turned into a large building made of white stone.

"What is this place?"

"It's a house, of course – but of whom . . . that I won't tell you."

"I suppose you want me to."

They whirled; the brightly-dressed Damascene took off his turban to reveal an abundance of brown hair, tousled and low on his forehead, and took a pair of reading glasses from his pocket, wearing them on his nose. Now that Lyra saw him well, she noticed his wrinkled face, though he couldn't be older than forty, and the scars through his face that revealed him unequivocally as a veteran warrior.

"Lyra, meet Lord Diego de Olmedo."

"Charmed," the Spaniard said, extending a hand. "Vincent's told me his entire theory on you – I hope you live up to it, girl."

"I'll do my best, Lord Olmedo."

"Oh, she will," Vincent added. "I've been teaching her a few of our old tricks, Diego. But right now we're in a bit of a hurry as to time."

"Not to worry, Vincent. We have all the time in the world."

* * *

**Thanks to:**

_Booky _- Given that the story won't be much longer, I doubt Will will (no pun intended) make another appearance. If he doesn't, there is a sequel on the way where he should definitely play a major role; and don't expect his allegiance to the Black Rose to be permanent, either.

_YOU SHALL NEVER KNOW MY NAME _- Maybe the most random name for a reviewer . . . you know, it's usually strange to receive reviews written in all caps. Either way, here's the chapter you asked for. I don't send chapters in advance, though I have established talk with other writers and told them what may happen. I'm not doing that with this story because, frankly, I have no idea what'll happen!


	18. Remnants

"How bad?"

"We've stopped their advance, at least," Danielle said, cradling her broken arm.

"Casualties?"

"Thirteen Councilors, twenty supernumeraries." Danielle again. "That's the ones we know of. Chances are there are dead bodies we haven't seen yet."

"Lyra? Vincent?"

"Escaped already. Olmedo caught them in Damascus."

"Then at least we've won the war."

Aurelio winced.

Yes, they may have won the war, but the battle . . . If ever had they lost one, it was this battle. He'd last seen Jasper Danes running up to engage a Dark Knight in one-to-one combat, though he doubted he would survive for long; Baltasar Morán, the only other Spanish speaker he knew of, had led an effort to capture the eastern wing of the Hall. They'd left not long before.

"We might as well wait the Dark Knights out," Hieronymus said finally.

"What?"

"It's obvious we're not their objective. Otherwise, we'd have been impaled on spears and skinned a long time ago. They're looking for something else."

"The portal Vincent and Lyra escaped through?"

"Most likely," Hieronymus acknowledged. "They won't find it, of course. _That _may cause them to turn their anger upon us. In which case, it would well behoove us to be ready, or we may be cut down like sheep if we stay here."

"I say we move towards Morán."

"You think they're alive?"

"I'd like to find out whether my Falcon's heart can still beat," Raven said from her perch, a few feet above them. "And if they _are _alive, we may be able to help them."

"A good idea. Any others?"

"I'd personally suggest escape," Danielle said. "We don't have a very good chance of finding Morán and his party alive, and even if we do, there's no guarantee that we'll manage a breakthrough just by being there."

"On the other hand," countered Borland as he wrapped more gauze around the cut on his shoulder, "we _might _be able to get the eastern wing back."

"Little chance of it, though."

"Enough."

Hieronymus spread his hands – the universal sign of the First for "shut up and listen to my orders." The only one who even moved was Raven, fluttering her wings, cawing softly every few seconds. Danielle felt along her broken arm, flinching every few seconds. Borland finally managed to stand up, though bending his leg still cost him some effort.

"We can't stay here, in any case. Is anyone willing to go after Lyra?"

"Not while we aren't finished here."

"Aurelio?" the First said, turning to him. "Would you?"

"No."

"What if it was an order?"

"I'm not leaving Council Hall in the hands of the Dark Knights."

"Very well." Hieronymus bared his teeth, smiling. "Let us go, then."

Aurelio nodded and drew; Danielle did so beside him. Hieronymus formed the first row with him; Danielle and Borland, injured as they were, took the back. Raven flew over all of them. Her massive wings could have cast shadows but for the lack of light inside the Hall.

"D'you hear that?" Borland said suddenly.

"What?"

"A kind of . . . buzzing . . ."

The moment Borland said it, Aurelio picked up on it too – an almost imperceptible hiss around them. It wasn't an actual _sound_, as a swarm of bees might have produced, but a feeling, a sensation in the air they couldn't shake.

"Raven, d'you sense anything?"

"Nothing," she replied from above them. "No life nearby."

"Then what the hell – "

They appeared out of nowhere, five men wielding swords and the sign of the Black Rose, malevolent in demeanour and in weaponry.

"You three, _go_!"

"What?"

Hieronymus blocked one strike above him, slashed at the wielder of the blade, struck one with his other arm, and swept his foot outward, tripping a third.

"You heard me! _Go_!"

"First," Aurelio replied, "I'm not leaving you."

"Nor am I!" Danielle said, using her good arm to block a strike.

"Don't be stupid," the First said as a sword tore his robes. "There's a greater trouble than this brewing ahead!"

"No!"

Borland put his weight on his bad leg and blocked a forceful strike from one of them – struck back – countered –

Aurelio drew the Dark Knight back before he could slash again and sank his blade into the man's throat, withdrawing it as he heard the fatal gulp.

"Four against four," Raven remarked as she brutally clawed her opponent. "Seems fairer now."

"Well said."

Aurelio had been too busy to notice that he was now alone, encircled by the four last of the Dark Knights – but he was rather able to gain a good attack position here. As Raven ripped into one of their stomachs, the man bent back – and received steel through his chest for his trouble; another one soon lay beside him, pierced by the First and Aurelio together.

"Any wounded?" Borland said, nimbly staying out of the last one's reach.

"Not yet!" Danielle replied. She lunged, striking at the last one.

It took them a minute or so to check the dead and make sure none of them were too wounded; the First had a scratch down his body, but that was all.

"The east wing?"

"Still an admirable goal," the First said as he relocated his baldric. "Perhaps more so now. Borland? Danielle? Still able to move?"

"We'll survive."

"Raven?"

"My wings are untouched," she replied, smiling.

"Very well," he said.

For a moment there was only silence. Aurelio fidgeted with the handle of his sword and wondered if Ginebra had gotten out safely – not that Lyra, or Vincent for that matter, would have noticed her slipping into the portal.

"May we go on?"

"Of course."

"Good." The First sighed and grinned. "For a moment there, I thought . . . but no, it wasn't possible."

"What?"

"Nothing."

For a moment Aurelio wanted to ask himself: he was sure the First would tell him. Or, he had been sure until he saw the look on the First's face.

"Will they be safe, Aurelio?"

"Vincent's not one to let his charge die because of incompetence."

"True," Hieronymus said, his hands on the pommel of his sword, "and yet I worry for them . . . the moment they left the Hall, our protections upon them were gone."

"Perhaps it is better in that."

"Perhaps."

"May we go now?" Raven cut in. "It would be excellent if we could rest, but there may be unburied cadavers waiting for us."

"She's right." Danielle ripped part of one Dark Knight's coat, using it to bind her arm. "We could be too late to save them now."

"Very well," the First said. "Aurelio, I nonetheless need you to leave the Hall. Seek out Vincent and Lyra, and do not leave their side once you've found them."

"Are you certain, my First?"

"If I do not survive, you shall hear about it, and I fully expect you to take command of the Watchers." Hieronymus smiled. "Let us make this quick."

He held out his hand.

Aurelio touched it – and in a moment, knew he had disappeared.


	19. Announcement!

**ANNOUNCEMENT!**

* * *

Basically, here's the story:

I'm using this method so that everyone that has this story on their alerts/favorites will get it.

I have exactly one chapter of the sequel to _Reign of Darkness_ done. That sequel, _Soulstitcher_, I could have sworn I had begun already. Since I haven't, that's what I'm planning to do within the next hour. I'm informing you of the title so you know what to search for.

Furthermore, be aware that I did lose some of my work - my computer was waterlogged in an incident I don't want to retell right now - and I'm trying to get back into the "vibe" of the whole story. I may trip up a few times. If I do, please tell me so I can invent a plausible enough retcon as a patch-up and eventually repair the whole thing.

I really do appreciate your feedback, however.

Signing off,  
Joachim Myrdal


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